Chapter 135

Sean POV

I stepped out of the lavatory, the faint hum of the jet's engines buzzing in my ears like a swarm of angry bees.

My shirt clung to my chest, damp and wrinkled from where Angela had pressed herself against me-whether she'd meant to or not.

I ran a hand through my hair, trying to shake off the heat still coursing through me, the memory of her trembling under my touch, the way her breath had hitched despite all her protests.

My cheek stung where she'd slapped me, a sharp reminder of how fast things had spiraled out of control.

As I moved back into the cabin, Thomas glanced up from his seat near the window. His eyes widened for a split second, taking in my disheveled state-shirt untucked, collar askew, hair a mess.

I saw the flicker of surprise in his expression, but then it was gone, replaced by that cool, collected mask he always wore.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, subtle but unmistakable, like he'd pieced together exactly what had gone down in that tiny bathroom. He leaned back in his seat, folding his arms, and I could practically hear the gears turning in his head.

"You alright, Sean?" he asked, his tone casual but laced with something teasing. He stood and stepped closer, eyeing the wet patches on my shirt. "Looks like you got caught in a storm in there. Want me to grab you a fresh shirt? That one's soaked."

I shot him a glare, my jaw tightening. "No," I snapped, sharper than I meant to. "I'm fine."

Thomas raised his hands in mock surrender, that damn smirk still playing on his lips.

"Alright, alright. Just trying to help."

He backed off, retreating to his seat with a knowing look that made my blood simmer. He didn't say anything else-didn't need to. The way he chuckled under his breath told me he'd already figured out more than I wanted him to.

I turned away, dropping into my own seat and staring out at the dark sky beyond the window, trying to shove down the tangle of frustration and need still clawing at me.

A few minutes later, the lavatory door clicked open again. Angela emerged, her blouse buttoned up tight to her throat, her hair smoothed back into place like nothing had happened.

She looked composed, cold even, but I knew better. I'd felt her unraveling just moments ago-her body had given her away, no matter how much she wanted to deny it.

She didn't look at me as she crossed the cabin, her steps clipped and deliberate, like she could erase me from the room just by refusing to acknowledge I was there.

I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees.

"Half an hour till we land," I said, keeping my voice steady, testing the waters.

She didn't respond. Didn't even glance my way. Just sat down across the aisle, her back ramrod straight, staring ahead like I was invisible. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating, and it pissed me off more than I wanted to admit.

She'd reacted to me in there, I thought, my mind replaying every second of it. When I'd kissed her, she'd kissed me back-at least for a moment, before the walls went up again.

Her body had trembled, her hips had pressed into my hand, chasing what I was giving her. She could lie to herself all she wanted, but I'd felt it.

So why the hell was she so damn stubborn?

Why did she keep pushing me away when I could still taste her on my lips, still feel the heat of her against me?

I hadn't meant to force her. That wasn't what I'd wanted-not really.

But standing there in that cramped space, her scent filling my head, her defiance sparking something primal in me, I'd lost it.

I couldn't stop myself.

It wasn't just now, either-it'd been building for weeks, ever since she came back to New York. Every time I saw her, that need clawed at me, raw and relentless.

And at the airport, hearing her on the phone with Christopher, laughing like that, so easy and light in a way she never was with me anymore-it'd lit a fuse I couldn't put out.

I'd wanted to claim her, to make her mine again, to erase him from her voice, her smile, her life.

I shifted in my seat, the ache in my chest tightening. I didn't regret it-not entirely. But the way she'd looked at me after, the fury in her eyes as she'd slapped me, that cut deeper than I wanted to admit.

By the time the plane touched down in Grandma Elizabeth's sleepy little hometown, the sky was pitch black.

The cemetery was long closed, its gates locked tight until morning. Angela and I would have to wait to visit the grave, so Thomas had arranged for us to crash at a hotel nearby.

My muscles ached as I stepped off the jet, the cold night air biting at my skin through my still-damp shirt. I wanted a shower, a drink, and about twelve hours of sleep-but I knew none of that would come easy with Angela around.

Thomas led the way to the hotel, a small, quaint place with creaky floors and dim lighting. He checked us in, handing over two keycards-one for me, one for Angela.

"Your rooms are next to each other," he said, tossing her a quick glance. "Figured it'd be easier that way."

Angela's head snapped up, her eyes narrowing. "No," she said, her voice flat but firm. "I'll take your room, Thomas. You can switch with me."

"What?" I said, stepping forward, irritation flaring hot in my chest. "That's ridiculous. The rooms are fine-"

"I don't care," she cut me off, snatching the keycard from Thomas's hand without even looking at me. "I'm not staying next to you."

"Angela-"

I started, but she was already moving, brushing past me like I was nothing. I stood there, rooted to the spot in the middle of the lobby, watching her go. Thomas shifted beside me, clearing his throat awkwardly.

"She's just tired," he offered, but I didn't buy it. Tired didn't explain the ice in her voice, the way she couldn't even stand the thought of a wall between us.

"Yeah, sure," I muttered, grabbing my own keycard and turning toward my room.

My hands curled into fists as I climbed the stairs, the weight of her rejection sinking in.

She could run all she wanted-swap rooms, ignore me, pretend I didn't exist-but it wouldn't change what had happened. It wouldn't change the way her body had arched into mine, the way she'd gasped my name before she'd remembered to hate me.

I pushed open the door to my room, the faint scent of old wood and lavender hitting me as I stepped inside. The bed was neatly made, the curtains drawn tight against the night, but I didn't care about any of it.

I dropped my bag by the door and sank onto the edge of the mattress, my head in my hands.

I should've let her go five years ago. Should've let her stay gone.

But seeing her again, being near her-it was like a drug I couldn't kick.

Every look, every word, every damn fight just pulled me deeper.

And now, here we were, stuck in this nowhere town, her one room away-or two, thanks to her little stunt with Thomas-and me still burning for her like some idiot who didn't know better.

I glanced at the wall separating my room from Thomas's, knowing she was on the other side of it now, probably unpacking her things, washing me off her skin.

The thought made my stomach twist. She could scrub all she wanted, but she couldn't wash away what I'd felt-what we'd both felt.