Bright light streamed through the window, pulling me out of sleep. I groaned and draped my arm over my face, trying to block out the intrusive sun. A soft sigh next to me made me freeze. Slowly, I sat up and turned my head to see Tasha still asleep.
Her hair was a mess, sprawled across the pillow, and her hand was clenched into a tiny fist. Hickeys dotted her smooth, golden-brown skin, visible against the soft light. She looked so peaceful, so vulnerable.
And then it hit me like a truck.
What the hell did I just do?
My stomach churned as I rubbed my hands over my face, guilt seeping in. I slipped out of bed, carefully stepping over discarded clothes as I searched for my jeans. The hangover wasn't helping—my head pounded with every movement.
"You're awake," a soft voice interrupted my thoughts.
I turned around and saw Tasha sitting up, holding the sheet to her chest. Her sleepy smile made something twist in my chest, but I shoved it down. Her hair tumbled lazily over her shoulders, and her flushed cheeks made her look... beautiful.
Stop it.
"Yeah," I said, swallowing hard. "I think you should go."
Her smile vanished. Her lips trembled, and she inhaled sharply, blinking away the sting of tears. "What?" she asked, her voice quiet.
"This... This was a mistake," I muttered, pulling my shirt over my head.
Her face crumpled for a moment, but she quickly replaced it with a strained smile. She climbed out of bed, clutching the sheet around her as she gathered her clothes.
I stepped in front of the door, blocking her exit. "Tasha, listen. You know how I am. I don't do relationships. I don't do feelings. I told you—"
"You don't need to explain," she interrupted, her voice cracking.
Her tears were pooling now, and she furiously wiped at them. She let out a bitter laugh that sent a pang through me. "You said you loved me," she whispered, her words like a punch to my gut.
"Tasha—"
"No, let me talk!" she snapped. Her voice wavered, but she stood tall. "I've liked you for years, Emmett. Years. Every time you walked into a room, my heart would race. Every little thing you said made me hope that maybe—just maybe—you felt the same way. I was an idiot."
I flinched.
"You helped me when I needed it most," she continued, her voice cracking. "You made me smile when I thought I never would again. I thought you were different. I thought..." She trailed off, shaking her head. "We can still be friends," I croaked.
"I don't want to be your friend, Emmett. Don't talk to me ever again."
And with that, she was gone.
I stood there for a long moment, staring at the closed door. My chest felt heavy, like something had lodged itself there, and it wasn't going away.
She'd left her shoes behind. I noticed them by the bed and considered running after her, but I couldn't. Instead, I collapsed onto the mattress and buried my face in my hands.
Later that morning
I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror. Scratches lined my shoulders, and a faint hickey marked my neck. A part of me smiled, remembering her hands clawing at me, but it faded quickly.
"Get it together," I muttered to myself.
This was for the best. Things would only get more complicated if I let her believe this meant something more. I'd been honest about what I wanted—or didn't want—from the start.
I stepped into the shower, letting the scalding water wash over me. The knots in my stomach wouldn't unravel, but I pushed them aside. By the time I left my room, the house was a wreck. Trash and red cups were everywhere, and the smell of stale beer lingered in the air.
As I reached the stairs, Isla's door creaked open behind me. Her footsteps followed closely, and I knew she wasn't going to let this go.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" she demanded, her voice sharp and unforgiving.
I stopped mid-step and turned to her with a frown. "What now?"
"Don't 'what now' me!" she snapped, her arms crossed. "You hurt her. I thought you cared about her."
I sighed and rubbed my temple. "Is she still here?"
"No," Isla scoffed. "Her friend took her home. You remember Milton, don't you? At least he has some decency."
I nodded and turned toward the kitchen. I needed water—and maybe a minute to gather myself.
"You're not going to say anything?" she yelled after me.
"NO!" I slammed my hand against the counter. "What do you want me to say, Isla?!"
Her glare could've burned a hole through me.
Kyle appeared behind her, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "Dude..." he started.
"Stay and help him clean up," Isla spat. "I can't even look at him right now." She stormed off, leaving me and Kyle in the wrecked kitchen.
Kyle grabbed a trash bag and started tossing cups into it without a word. I chugged a glass of water, avoiding his gaze.
Finally, I broke the silence. "What, man? You've been quiet this whole time. Just spit it out."
He sighed, shaking his head. "I don't get it. Why? You've never treated anyone like you treat Tasha. I thought you actually cared about her."
I scoffed, setting the glass down. "We were drunk, okay? It was a mistake."
Kyle looked at me, his expression full of disappointment. "You don't think you're gonna regret this?"