Tangled Hearts

Chapter 4

The space beside me was empty when I woke up. The sheets were still rumpled, the air in my room thick with the scent of him — soap, clean cotton, something warm and heavy that lingered in the fibers. For a long moment, I stayed tucked beneath the covers, soaking it in like if I stayed still enough, I could stretch the feeling of last night into forever.

Finn had left hours ago, tugging on his jacket with that lazy, lopsided grin that made my heart somersault. "Catch you later?" he'd asked, almost tentative, like he wasn't sure if I'd want to. "Yeah sure, why not?" I'd tossed back, pretending it didn't mean more than it should. And then he was gone — no heavy goodbye, no kiss on the forehead, just a grin and the soft snick of the door closing behind him. I'd fallen back into bed smiling, a contented sigh slipping past my lips before sleep dragged me under.

Now, in the pale morning light, I stretched lazily, my muscles aching in the best kind of way. Every part of me felt used, sated, wrecked in a way that made me want to curl into myself and relive every second. A one-night stand. On the first day of the semester. The thought should have filled me with panic or regret — it should have had me questioning every life choice that led to this bed, these sheets, this sore, satisfied body.

But it didn't.

Because girls like me?

Girls who grew up believing in epic, all-consuming love stories?

They weren't made for casual flings.

And yet... here I was.

I huffed out a breath, a hollow sound in the quiet room, trying to laugh at myself and failing miserably.

Maybe I should have felt worse. Maybe I should have been more careful with my heart. But even lying there alone, I didn't regret it. Not for a second. What I regretted — if anything — was how easy it had been to believe that something so simple could mean something more.

I pulled the duvet tighter around me, letting my head fall back against the pillow as I stared at the ceiling. He said he'd text. It wasn't a promise carved in stone, but still... it was something. Enough that I wanted to believe he meant it. Enough that I let myself hope, even when hope had never done me many favors.

Eventually, I rolled over and grabbed my phone, unlocking it with a flick of my thumb, my heart kicking up at the stupid possibility.

Nothing.

No texts.

No missed calls.

No lazy "thinking of you" message that would make me feel a little less foolish.

I stared at the screen for a second too long before dropping the phone onto the mattress with a sigh. It's early, I told myself. He's probably at practice. Maybe he forgot. Maybe he's busy. Maybe—

Maybe it meant nothing at all.

The thought lodged itself deep and sharp beneath my ribs, but I refused to let it breathe.

I had classes to get ready for.

A life to live that didn't revolve around a boy with messy hair and a smile that made my knees weak.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, wincing when my body protested the movement, every ache and bruise a whisper of his hands, his mouth, his laugh against my skin. I caught sight of myself in the mirror across the room — hair wild, cheeks flushed, lips still a little too swollen — and for a second, I didn't even recognize the girl staring back at me.

Maybe it was foolish.

Maybe I was foolish.

But some stubborn, foolish part of me still hoped my phone would buzz before the day was over.