Page 46 of Connor

Connor’s expression flickered for half a second. But that half-second was everything.

I laughed, harsh and empty. “That’s what I thought.”

He was vibrating now, his hands clenched into fists, his breathing harsh. “You wanna talk about fucking other people, Summer?” His voice was sharp, dangerous, a threat wrapped in desperation. “Go ahead. Tell me how long it took you before you let someone else between your thighs.”

I saw red. Before I could think, my palm slammed against his cheek. The sound cracked through the air, echoing through the tiny apartment.

Connor didn’t flinch. He just took it. That smug, self-satisfied, infuriating look that made me want to claw his fucking face off.

“Oh?” He chuckled darkly, tilting his head, taunting me. “That struck a nerve, didn’t it?”

“You’re a piece of shit.” My voice shook.

Connor took another step forward, closing the distance, towering over me, his breath ragged. “And you still want me.”

“I don’t.”

I hated how weak it sounded. How it wasn’t convincing. How I didn’t believe it myself.

“I have a child to raise, Connor,” I spat, voice shaking with fury, with exhaustion. “And I’m not raising you too.”

The words were a slap to the face. Harder than the one I’d actually given him. He went still. Silent. And then—he nodded. Once. Sharp. Resigned. But his eyes—fuck, his eyes told another story. Something cracked open between us. Something violent and ugly and unfixable.

His jaw worked. His chest heaved. He swallowed, like he was about to say something. But he didn’t. Instead—without another word—he turned and walked out.

The door slammed shut behind him. I stood there, shaking.

Fury burned beneath my skin. It was too much. I wanted to scream, to break something, to burn this entire fucking apartment down just so it would stop feeling like him.

I wiped my face, hating myself for how my hands trembled.

If he wanted to fuck away his pain, then so could I.

Fuck Connor. I was so done waiting for him to come back to me. The silence in the apartment bothered me and the longer I stood there, the more I started shaking.

My breath came in sharp, ragged bursts as the echoes of Connor’s voice rang through my skull. His anger. His desperation. The way he had looked at me—like he still fucking wanted me.

My stomach churned. My hands trembled. I forced myself to move.

I grabbed my phone off the counter. The screen lit up, notifications blurring in my periphery. I didn’t care. My mind was already racing through names, flipping through conversations, grasping for anything to ground me—to drag me away from the lingering weight of him.

And then—I found it. My study group’s messages. I scrolled through the messages until one number stood out.

Nate.

Tall, broad-shouldered, always sitting just a little too close in study group, laughing a little too hard at my jokes, dropping casual, flirtatious comments that I had brushed off before. He’d been trying to get me alone for weeks. I never gave him the chance.

Until now.

I opened our last conversation. The messages were easy, harmless. A few study notes. A joke about our professor’s terrible handwriting. Nothing serious. Nothing important. But that didn’t matter.

I took a breath. Typed.

Summer:Hey. You busy?

It took him less than thirty seconds to respond.

Nate:Not for you. What’s up?

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