Page 45 of Back to You
I press my forehead against the steering wheel, squeezing my eyes shut. I don’t know what happened to her after she left. We didn’t remain in touch and for the sake of my heart and sanity, I didn’t keep tabs on her.
I know she moved away. I know she got married, and I know that she lost him. That is about all I know of her time away from here, away from me.
I wish I knew what their marriage was like, what kind of man he was to her. I don’t know what she went through, what she carries, or what makes her shake at the idea of kissing me or being with me. It guts me.
I understand if she’s still in mourning, she lost her husband. But it felt like more than that. It felt like she was genuinely scared. I can’t help but think back to when we were young; she used to grab my hand first and pull me in when I hesitated.
And now, she’s so scared of being close to me that she can’t even look at me without her whole body shutting down. It fucking kills me.
I inhale deeply, trying to clear the weight sitting on my chest. The more I think about it, the worse it gets. The tight way she held herself, the way she couldn’t meet my eyes, the way she reacted like I was something to fear.
This isn’t just about us or about starting over. I can feel it. She’s been hurt, not just emotionally, but in a deeper way. I don’t know how to ask her about it.
I don’t want her to feel pressured, but I want to understand. Ineedto understand. Not because I want to fix it or fix her, but because I need her to know that she doesn’t have to carry it all alone.
She doesn’t have to keep running, protecting herself from something that isn’t me. I’m here for her; I will always be here for her.
I finally start the truck, pulling onto the quiet streets of our town. Everything feels too still, too heavy. It feels like the universe hasn’t caught up to the fact that something has just shifted between us.
I roll down the window, trying to clear my head, but it doesn’t help. All I can think about is her. The way she said my name, hesitant, trembling, like she was afraid of how it sounded in her own mouth. All I can feel is the space where her lips almost touched mine, and even though she’s not in this car with me, she’s everywhere.
I park in front of my place. I should go inside. I should go to sleep, wake up, and move the hell on. But I don’t want to, and I couldn’t even if I tried.
Because I know the truth now. I’ve known it since the moment I saw her again in Ink & Paper, and it shook up my world. It’s the thing I’ve been trying to shove down, to ignore, to pretend it isn’t there.
The realization that I’m still in love with her hits me with full force; I’m not sure I ever stopped. It slams into me like a wave crashing so hard it drags me under, stealing every ounce of air from my lungs. I sit there, blinking at the empty darkness before me, but all I see is her.
I don’t know what to do now. I don’t know how to show her that with me, she is and always will be safe.
What I do know is that I can’t walk away from this. I can’t continue to fight what I’ve been feeling. Not when I just got her back. Not when she’s right here, just out of reach.
I pull out my phone, staring at her name in my contacts. I don’t text her, don’t call her.
I just sit there, the weight of the night pressing against my chest, and let myself feel it. Because this? This isn’t over. Not even close. And when she’s ready, when she feels safe enough to let me in—I’ll be waiting.
CHAPTER 17
Mariana
The dough beneath my hands was too warm. Too sticky. Too much of a damn mess. I gritted my teeth, kneading harder, trying to work it into something salvageable, but it wasn’t cooperating.
Neither was my body. The stiffness in my fingers had started earlier. A dull, familiar ache spread through my joints, making every movement feel heavier than it should. I ignored it. I had work to do, things to fix, recipes to perfect.
The pain wasn’t the worst part. No, it was the fatigue. That creeping, marrow-deep exhaustion that wasn’t just tiredness. It was a shutdown. A refusal. My body’s way of reminding me I wasn’t in control of it anymore. I hated it.
I hated that even after everything, even after I’d worked so hard to rebuild myself, my own body was still working against me. Simple things—kneading dough, rolling out pastry, lifting a bag of flour—tasks that used to be second nature now drained me completely.
The things I used to do without a second thought, the things that once felt tedious, now felt impossible. Every movement stole a little more of my energy, like my body was hoarding it, rationing it out like I wasn’t capable of deciding for myself.
The way it chipped away at me wasn’t just physical—it was mental. How do you come to terms with feeling trapped in your own body? How do you not resent the fact that the things that once took zero effort now demand everything from you? The exhaustion isn’t just something you feel—it becomes part of you, shaping your days, your choices, your future.
I leaned my weight into the dough, pressing down harder, fighting against the growing tremor in my hands. I wasn’t weak. I wasn’t fragile. I could handle this. I could handle anything. I always did.
The bakery was quiet, just the hum of the ovens and the occasional creak of the old pipes. I should have gone home an hour ago, but I wasn’t ready to face the silence there. I wasn’t ready to sit alone with my thoughts.
Sebastian. I could still feel the almost kiss hanging between us, the way his breath brushed against my skin, the way my whole body had locked up like I’d been yanked in time.
I hadn’t meant to flinch, but I had, and he noticed. I hated that the memory made my chest feel tight, like my ribs were pressing in too hard. It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t about him. But I knew Seba. He’d be thinking about it. Overanalyzing each moment. Picking every second apart.
