I just lay down briefly when the bed beside me dented. Vincent’s cold skin pressed against mine as he slid an arm around my waist.
“Claire...” he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. His hand slipped under the hem of my nightgown, fingers trailing along my skin.
I shifted slightly, putting space between us. Then I gently grabbed his hand and said, “Vincent, I’m tired tonight. I don’t want to.”
In all the years we had been together, I never refused him.
In the past, whenever we lost our temper, it was almost always resolved in bed. Vincent loved taking his time, teasing and coaxing me into surrender until I begged for him.
And afterwards, he would hold me tightly, whispering sweet nothings and asking me not to be jealous anymore.
But tonight, I felt nothing.
It hit me that, with my decision to leave so close, none of this really mattered anymore.
After I turned him down that night, Vincent froze for a moment, his body stiff with tension. Perhaps his pride wouldn’t allow him to ask why I had rejected him. He just muttered a quiet “Okay” and turned his back to me.
That night, the space between us felt as far as the Milky Way.