The morning after smelled like cinnamon and sex.
Sunlight streamed through the half-closed curtains, painting soft golden lines across the crumpled sheets. Isabelle stirred slowly, her body aching in the best ways, her lips still tingling from the way Nathan had kissed her—ravenous, reckless. Like a man starved.
She turned over, expecting warmth beside her.
But the space was cold.
Again.
A whisper of disappointment curled in her chest. Not sharp. Just familiar.
She sat up, pulling the sheet around her and walking quietly to the bathroom. The mirror caught her off guard: tousled hair, love-bitten collarbone, swollen lips. She looked ruined and radiant all at once.
And yet, her heart beat a little too fast. Not with excitement. With a question she didn't want to name: Was it real?
Downstairs, she heard the faint sound of clinking dishes. She followed it, barefoot and nervous, tugging Nathan's dress shirt around her. The fabric still smelled like his skin.
In the kitchen, he stood at the stove—shirtless, his slacks unbuttoned at the waist. Coffee steamed from two mugs on the counter. Toast popped behind him.
It was almost domestic. Almost normal.
"Morning," he said, glancing back with a smile.
"Morning," she echoed, uncertain.
"I didn't want to wake you. You were… exhausted." His grin curved, playful. "For good reason."
She laughed softly, leaning against the doorway, watching him. "So now you remember I exist?"
Nathan paused, spatula mid-air. The smile faltered, just a little. "Come on, Issa. Don't do that."
"I'm not doing anything," she said, folding her arms. "I'm just trying to figure out if last night was desire or nostalgia."
He turned off the burner.
"I don't know," he admitted, voice low. "Maybe both."
She blinked. That wasn't what she wanted to hear—but it wasn't cruel either. It was… honest.
He stepped closer, coffee in hand. "I missed you," he said. "Even if I didn't know how to say it. Work's been—"
"I know," she cut in. "It always is."
He handed her the mug, brushing her fingers. "Then maybe I need to stop making work my excuse."
She sipped, watching him over the rim. His eyes were soft, but guarded.
A silence stretched between them. Not heavy, but uncertain.
"Nathan," she said finally, "last night... it wasn't just about sex. It was me fighting for us. For me."
"I know," he said. "I felt it."
"Did you?" she whispered. "Or did you just take what I gave because it was easy?"
His jaw clenched. "Don't do that, Issa. Don't twist it."
"I'm not. I'm just… tired of being the only one trying." She stepped back. "I needed last night. But now I need more."
Nathan exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "I don't know what you want me to say."
"I want you to see me when it's not convenient. I want you to miss me before I undress. I want to stop feeling like I have to seduce you to be touched."
The words came out sharper than she expected. They hovered between them like smoke—real, bitter, and impossible to ignore.
Nathan looked down, swallowing hard. "I didn't mean to let it get this far."
"You didn't mean to—but you did."
She set the mug down.
He reached for her, but she stepped away, softly. Not in anger. In sadness.
"I love you, Nathan," she said. "But I need to feel like your partner. Not your afterthought."
He didn't answer right away. His shoulders sagged under the weight of her truth.
"I'll fix it," he said. "If you let me."
She stared at him for a moment longer, then nodded—once. Quietly. She wanted to believe him. God, she did.
But belief wasn't automatic anymore. Not after months of silence. Not after so many empty goodnights.
They sat down at the table together. They ate. Talked a little. Smiled.
But beneath the surface, something still flickered—warm, unsteady, and uncertain.
It wasn't over.
But it wasn't healed either.
And as Isabelle cleaned the table later that morning, her phone buzzed.
A name lit up the screen.
One she hadn't seen in years.
Elijah Wolfe.
Her former flame.
The one who used to write poetry on her thighs.
The one who once said, If he ever forgets what you're worth, you let me remind him.
Her fingers hovered above the screen.
She didn't open the message.
But her pulse quickened.
And just like that, the fire she'd just reignited... sparked into something else entirely.