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I leaned my head against his shoulder, my fingers idly sketching shapes on his chest, still feeling all warm and satisfied. Rowan was quieter than usual, his steady breaths beneath me, one hand absentmindedly playing with my hair in slow strokes.
Eventually, he shifted, the bed dipping as he pushed himself up, the sheets slipping down his hips in a way that made me want to pull him right back under. In the soft golden light of the hotel, his tattoos looked more vibrant, ink stretching across his skin as he lifted his arms. For a moment, he seemed almost boyish, shyly pleased with himself… then he ruined it by ruffling his white hair like he was posing for a photo.
"I swear, I'll strangle you," I propped myself up on my elbows, blinking sleepily. "If you say you're starving and want a taste of my—"
He chuckled, a soft rumble from his chest, shaking his head. "Not this time." Then his smile softened a bit. "I'm leaving tomorrow."
The words didn't hit me at first. They hung in the air between us, feeling out of place in the cozy quiet of the room. "Leaving?" I echoed, mostly confused.
Rowan nodded, wrapping a loose sheet around his waist as he stood. "Yeah. My label finalized everything last night. The world tour kicks off next week, but I'm flying out tomorrow for rehearsals and all that chaos."
He waved his hand dismissively, the way he often did when talking about the parts of fame he didn't enjoy. "There's press work, promo clips, interviews, and probably some last-minute drama with the band. You know how it goes."
I watched him talk, pacing a few steps before turning back to me with that familiar restless energy he had before something big. His face lit up with excitement, passion shining through as he spoke about music, stages, and fans cheering his name.
And I was genuinely happy for him. I really was.
But there was this little ache in my chest. It felt like every milestone he reached, every tour, every award, every magazine cover—pulled him just a bit further away. At first, it had been the fact he couldn't be seen with me in public—"management reasons," "image concerns," all that jazz. Then it became travel schedules, studio deadlines, flights, hotels, rehearsals, late-night shoots. And now… another tour.
I wasn't angry or even sad, not really. Just… aware that whatever we had, it existed in the cracks of his life—hotel rooms, stolen weekends, and half-finished breakfasts. And those cracks kept narrowing.
But I didn't voice any of that.
Instead, I smiled, the practiced easy smile I knew wouldn't make him feel guilty. "World tour, huh? That's impressive. When will you be back?"
He rubbed the back of his neck, looking a little sheepish. "Not entirely sure," he admitted. "Tours usually last… what, six months? Seven? Something like that, depending on venues and delays." He shrugged. "Could be longer this time. They added extra shows."
My heart sank a bit, soft but steady, yet I kept my voice light. "And where's your first stop?"
Rowan's eyes lit up. "Ireland." His grin widened, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Can you picture it? Me in Ireland. I'll probably cry the first time I see the cliffs."
I laughed lightly, sitting up as the sheet fell around my waist. "You probably will. You're dramatic like that."
He put a hand to his chest in mock offense. "I'm passionately artistic."
I snorted. "Same difference."
Rowan rolled his eyes, but that soft, affectionate smile returned—the kind he only had when it was just us. "I'll send you tons of pictures. Maybe even call. If I can manage the time zones."
"Mm." I nudged his leg with my foot. "You better. I want proof you aren't being taken in by some group of Irish grandmas."
He grinned, leaning down to kiss the top of my head, warm and lingering. "I'll make sure to let them know I'm already taken."
For a moment, I forgot how to breathe. His words weren't meant literally—I knew that.
We weren't together.
We were friends with benefits, nothing more, nothing promised, nothing owed.
Still… the way he said it made something flutter traitorously in my chest.
I forced a light smile. "They won't believe you. You're too charming."
"Then you'll have to keep an eye on me when I'm back," Rowan winked. "Whenever that ends up being."
And even though I laughed, nodded, and teased him back… the quiet ache in my chest lingered.
Oh well.
He wasn't my boyfriend or partner anyway.
When the door clicked shut behind Rowan, the room felt too quiet. It was strange how silence settled so quickly after he left—like the air had exhaled. I sat on the edge of the big hotel bed, the sheets still warm from where he'd been, letting my gaze wander around the suite as if I hadn't already memorized it a dozen times.
The huge windows framed a washed-out morning sky, the city below stretching in sleepy shades of gray and gold. Everything looked sleek, polished, and modern—the kind of place someone like Rowan belonged, someone whose life was getting bigger, louder, brighter.
Someone whose life was outgrowing mine.
I leaned back on my hands, tipping my head back to stare at the ceiling, the scent of him still hanging around me. There was something bittersweet about mornings like this. Warm skin, familiar laughter, remnants of last night still tingling under my skin… and then the harsh reminder that we lived in borrowed moments.
Six months.
Half a year of world stages, neon lights, and fans shouting his name.
And me?
Just me.
An omega with way too high a libido and no self-control, stuck figuring out how to survive the next six months without a reliable outlet.
I groaned loudly, flopping back onto the bed. "Great. Fantastic. Six months without an alpha," I mumbled at the ceiling. "Six months of me climbing the walls like some restless creature with no life and too many hormones."
My voice echoed slightly in the pricey quiet. It made the whole situation feel even more pathetic, which was a nice touch.
But the truth was… I couldn't hold him back. I wouldn't. Rowan had worked way too hard, sacrificed too much, and now he was the lead idol of Neøn Abyss—the band everyone on the internet was obsessed with. He deserved the world he was stepping into, with or without the little pieces of me that still sometimes ached for more than he could give.
I sighed and dragged a hand over my face. "It'll be fine," I reassured myself. "I'll make it. I always do. Maybe I'll… meditate. Or take cold showers. Or read a book." I paused. "Okay, maybe not the book thing, but something. I'll figure it out."
My words felt like gentle lies, but lies nonetheless.
Still, I didn't have any other choice.
I blinked up at the ceiling for a moment longer before rolling over to grab my phone from the nightstand. I wasn't in any rush. I felt too cozy, too warm, too—
My screen lit up.
8:30 AM.
I froze.
No thoughts. No breath. No heartbeat.
8:30.
Eight. Thirty.
My meeting with Xavier Fairchild—my boss, my cold-hearted, impossibly gorgeous, perfectionist alpha boss—was at nine.
Nine.
"Nine," I whispered in horror, barely audible.
The realization hit me hard, sending me scrambling up as if the mattress had turned electrified. "Oh my god—no, no, no—"
My legs got tangled in the sheets, and I stumbled, nearly face-planting onto the plush hotel carpet. "I'm dead. I'm really dead. This is how I die. Xavier's going to murder me and bury my body in one of the company's data centers."
I rushed to the bathroom, almost slipping on the shiny floor, grabbing one of the plush robes on the way but missing entirely. It fell off the hook and onto my face, and I yelped, trying to shake it off like a frantic baby animal.
"Why am I like this?" I gasped, tripping into the sink. Water splashed everywhere as I tried to wash my face, brush my teeth, and breathe all at once. My hair was a mess. My clothes were scattered somewhere across the suite from last night. My badge and employee keycard were probably under the bed. My entire life felt like chaos.
And I still needed to make it to Fairchild Innovations, walk into a building full of judging coworkers, and sit across from Xavier Fairchild—the alpha whose jawline could cut glass—trying to act like I was a composed, responsible adult, not a late, frustrated mess who'd overslept in a hotel after the best farewell sex ever.
I stared at my reflection for a second, hair sticking out like I'd been electrocuted, then shook my head violently.
"Nope. No time, no dignity. We move."
I dashed back into the room, grabbing my pants from the chandelier—no clue why they were up there, but I didn't stop to ponder it. Shirt, shoes, jacket, bag. Everything went on crooked, backwards, or both. I shoved my phone into my pocket, snatched my keycard from under a pillow, and bolted for the door, half-tucked, half-wild, fully panicking.
Xavier Fairchild was not going to be impressed with this.
Not even a little.
And if I didn't get there on time…
He might actually fire me.