Chapter Twenty-Five: The Breakup
Writer's POV - Age 20
Fabiola met Marcos at the coffee shop two days later.
The same one where Evan had seen them together at Christmas. The irony wasn't lost on her.
Marcos was already there when she arrived, two cups of coffee on the table hers made exactly how she liked it. He always remembered the details.
"Hey," he said, standing when he saw her. Always a gentleman.
"Hey." She slid into the seat across from him.
They sat in uncomfortable silence for a moment. Then Marcos spoke.
"You're back with him, aren't you?"
Fabiola's throat tightened. "Yes."
"Even after he abandoned you ?"
"Yes."
"Even though he walked into your apartment and threw me out like I was nothing?"
"Marcos..."
"I'm not angry." His voice was surprisingly gentle. "I'm just trying to understand. What does he have that I don't? What makes him worth all this pain?"
Fabiola stared at her untouched coffee, searching for words that would make sense.
"He needs me," she said finally. "In a way you never did. In a way that's probably not healthy but feels... essential. Like I'm the air he breathes."
"That's not love, Fabiola. That's codependency."
"Maybe." She met his eyes. "But it's my codependency. My choice."
Marcos leaned back, studying her face. "You've changed. You used to be so bright. So full of life. Now you look..." He paused. "Haunted."
"I know."
"He's not good for you."
"I know that too."
"Then why..."
"Because I can't breathe without him either." Her voice cracked. "I tried, Marcos. I really tried. You were perfect kind and stable and everything I should want. But every time you touched me, I felt nothing. Every time you kissed me, I wished you were him. That's not fair to you."
Marcos's eyes shimmered. "I could have made you happy. If you'd let me."
"No," Fabiola said softly. "You could have made me content. Safe. Comfortable. But not happy. Because I don't know how to be happy without him anymore. He ruined me for anyone else."
"That's so fucked up."
"I know."
Marcos wiped his eyes roughly. "I care about you. A lot. And it kills me to watch you go back to someone who hurts you."
"I'm sorry," Fabiola whispered. "You deserved better than this. Better than me."
"You're wrong." His voice broke. "You're exactly what I wanted. You're just in love with someone else."
A tear slid down Fabiola's cheek. "I'm sorry," she said again.
Marcos stood, grabbed his coffee. "I hope he's worth it. I hope he treats you better this time. And I hope.." His voice caught. "I hope you remember how to smile again. Because that girl I knew in middle school, the one who laughed all the time she deserved the world."
Then he walked away.
Fabiola sat alone at the table, staring at the coffee he'd bought her, feeling the weight of what she'd just done.
She'd chosen Evan over kindness.
Chosen obsession over safety.
Chosen drowning over swimming.
And she couldn't even cry about it.
Evan was waiting outside in his car.
He didn't ask how it went. Didn't say anything. Just opened the passenger door for her.
The drive to his house the estate, empty with his mother still in Europebwas silent.
Fabiola stared out the window, numb.
When they arrived, Evan came around to open her door, took her hand, led her inside and up the grand staircase to his room.
Still no words.
He closed the door behind them.
Then, slowly, carefully, he started undressing her.
Not frantically. Not desperately.
Reverently.
He unbuttoned her coat, slipped it off her shoulders. Pulled her sweater over her head. Unhooked her bra with practiced ease.
His hands were cold against her warm skin, but gentle. So gentle.
When she was bare from the waist up, he stopped.
And scented her.
Started at her neck, pressing his nose to her pulse point, breathing deep. Then her collarbone. Her shoulders. The valley between her breasts.
He knelt, continued down. Her stomach. Her hips. Each inch of skin explored with his nose, his lips, his breath.
He removed her jeans, her underwear, until she stood completely naked before him.
And still he scented.
Her thighs. Behind her knees. Her ankles.
Then he stood, guided her to the bed, laid her down.
And scented every inch again from a different angle.
Her hair, spread across his pillow. Her wrists. The sensitive skin inside her elbows.
"Evan.." Her voice was barely a whisper.
"Shh." His lips grazed her hip bone. "I need this. Need to erase him. Need to make sure every part of you smells like us again."
He worked his way back up her body, scenting, tasting, claiming.
When he finally reached her face, his eyes were dark with possession.
"Never again," he said, his voice low and absolute. "Never let another man touch you. Never smell like anyone but me. Never..."
"Never," Fabiola agreed.
"Say you're mine."
"I'm yours."
"Say it again."
"I'm yours, Evan. Only yours."
He kissed her then deep and consuming and she tasted salt.
He was crying.
"I'm sorry," he whispered against her lips. "I'm so sorry I left. I'm sorry I hurt you. I'm sorry I'm so fucking broken I can't love you like a normal person."
"I don't want normal," Fabiola said, pulling him closer. "I just want you."
Evan undressed himself quickly, then covered her body with his.
Not to make love.
Just to hold her. Skin to skin. Heart to heart.
His face buried in her neck, breathing her in.
Her arms around him, holding him together.
Two broken people, fitted together in the only way that made sense.
"Never again," he repeated, muffled against her skin. "I'm never leaving you again. I'd rather die."
"Then don't leave," Fabiola whispered. "Stay. Just stay."
"Always," Evan promised.
And this time, in the darkness of his childhood room, surrounded by ghosts and memories and grief
Fabiola believed him.
For better or worse.
Probably worse.
But together.
Always together.
Even if together meant drowning.
Even if together meant losing themselves completely.
Even if somewhere in the house, in the shadows, something cold watched and waited.
Finally, it whispered.
Finally, she's where she belongs.
Mine.
Ours.
Forever.