Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 86242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
But the longer I stand here, the more my ankle protests. It started as a dull throb, just a mild annoyance, but now it's a sharp pain, biting through my every step. I wince, trying to hide it, trying to focus on the faces around me, but the pain is insistent, crawling up my leg with each movement.
“Ruthie, you okay?” The voice is familiar, soft, a friend, and I nod, forcing a smile. But the ache is there, pulling at my attention, twisting in my gut.
"Yeah, just tired," I lie, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, trying to alleviate the pressure on my ankle. "It’s been a long day."
"Do you need a seat?" she asks, concern edging her tone. She’s seen me like this before when the exhaustion starts to show but tonight is different. The pain is worse than usual, sharp and relentless.
“No, I’m fine.” I try to wave it off, but the moment the words leave my mouth, my ankle screams in protest.
I suck in a breath, trying not to make a scene.
A couple of hours pass, but the ache is only growing. The room feels smaller with each minute, the laughter and warmth now distant as the throb in my ankle grows more unbearable.
By the end of the night, my body is screaming for relief. The nausea from the pain crawls up my throat, and my exhaustion weighs heavily on me. I glance around at the faces, the smiles, but they feel like they’re from a world I no longer want to be part of.
I can’t go back to that empty, hollow apartment. It’s quiet there—too quiet. Cold, with nothing to fill it—just walls that feel like they’re closing in on me. No laughter. No warmth. Just silence.
I start to gather my things, my energy for small talk completely drained. I hear someone mention driving me home, but I quickly shake my head. “I’m good,” I say, trying to force some semblance of normalcy into my voice. “I just need to get home.”
But I don't want to go to my apartment.
I want his home. I want the sounds of Luka’s laughter echoing in the halls, filling every room with a kind of warmth I haven’t felt in so long. His joy is unguarded, pure. It’s the kind of noise that brings life to a space and makes it feel full. His tiny hands clapping, his giggles bubbling up like a song, even when he's getting into trouble. That chaos, that beautiful mess… it’s everything I want in my life right now.
But more than anything, I want him.
I want Vadka.
The thought of him, of his presence, settles like a weight in my chest. He’s not just a man; he’s stability. He’s the kind of person who makes everything feel like it’s okay, like it’s safe. I think about the way he moves in a room—quiet, controlled, yet there’s an intensity to him that makes it hard to ignore. But it’s not just his strength that calls to me. It’s the moments when he’s vulnerable, when the sharp edges soften, even just for a second. When he looks at me, and there’s something in his eyes that’s raw and unspoken.
I miss him.
I don’t realize I’ve spoken out loud until my friend’s voice breaks the silence. “You sure you don’t want a ride?”
“No,” I mutter, louder than I meant. “I’m fine. Really.” But it’s a lie. It’s always a lie.
I can’t shake the ache in my chest—the deep, almost aching desire to be with him. To be in his presence again.
I don’t want to be alone tonight. Not in my apartment. Not with this pain.
“I’ll be okay,” I force out, offering another weak smile before I turn, my steps slow and deliberate, but with each one, the weight of my wanting for him grows heavier. I want Vadka’s home, I want Luka’s laughter, and above all, I want him.
But the road home feels too long tonight.
Pulling out my phone, I see texts from Vadka—predictably pissed, sharp and possessive. I don’t answer texts at work, so I respond as I make my way out.
I had to work. You were busy. You knew I had to go in. Relax.
Vadka
If you knew what the doctor told me about being on your feet, you wouldn’t be telling me to relax.
He probably wanted to tack on young lady at the end. Stern. Overbearing. Bossy.
You told me I was safe, Vadka. You told me I had security with me. And you’d protect me too.
Vadka
So?
So I’m fine.
Vadka
Good. And you’re coming home with me.
I hear someone in front of me clearing his throat, and when I look up, I nearly drop my phone.
I swallow hard. “Yes. I’ll come back to your place tonight.”
But we’re not having sex. I don’t say that part out loud. Not because I don’t want to, but because it always complicates things, and I don’t want to fuck this up.