Page 79 of Wells

"I'm sorry I have to leave you on this beautiful Sunday, as tempting as your activities sounded."

"Try not to spend the whole day ruining your eyesight in front of six screens," I say.

"I only use four on the weekends."

"That was not the flex you thought it was."

His eyes smile, and he crosses to where I'm standing. His hand settles at my waist, pulling me in, and he kisses me. It's slow enough that it stays on my mouth after he pulls back.

"I'll call you later," he says.

He opens the door, glances back once, and leaves.

I stand there after the door clicks shut, staring at the empty space where he was. The apartment is different now, lighter. The mug he used sits on the counter next to mine. The sheets are still tangled on my bed. The faint scent of him lingers in the air.

I move through the afternoon without rush. I strip the bed and put the sheets in the laundry, take a long shower, and let the hot water ease the pleasant ache in my muscles.

I do go to the Fly for an afternoon flow on my own. I hate not having my partner in crime around, especially with this much to tell him, but Locke gets back from Vegas tonight.

After I get home, I make a chai and sit on the couch with my laptop, intending to sort through emails or maybe look at job boards out of habit.

My fingers open a browser tab, and I pause. OnlyFans is one of the frequently used tabs highlighted on the blank page. I almost forgot today is Sunday and that I'm supposed to have a call with Midnight.

I'm not sure what to expect there, but since he paid for the month, I plan to suit up and be online. I won't wait for him for an hour like I did on Thursday, though.

Him ghosting me almost helps with the guilt I carried about "seeing" two men. Funny way to put it, since I never saw him at all. He only ever saw me.

I log in out of curiosity to see if he ever messaged me. I already know he didn't, because I would have gotten a notification on my phone. But I can't help checking anyway.

I take a sip of my tea and set it down on the side table.

The page loads and I scan it on autopilot, messages and notifications, and the subscriber list.

Nothing.

I blink at the screen, my brain catching up slower than my eyes. His profile belongs right there, his username, our message thread. It's gone.

I refresh the page. Still nothing.

I click into my subscriber list and scroll through the names. I search for his username manually, typing it into the search bar.

No results.

I open the messages tab and look for the thread. The conversation we've had for weeks, the one that became something I looked forward to more than I wanted to admit.

I sit back, my hands hovering over the keyboard, hitting refresh for the third time.

The page reloads with the same empty spaces.

My fingers go cold against the laptop. Something drops out from under my ribs, a twist I don't see coming, and my mouth goes dry around it.

This isn't a glitch. He deleted the account. He didn't just ghost me Thursday night. He erased himself.

I close the laptop and set it on the coffee table, staring at the closed lid.

The apartment around me still smells faintly of Wells. The warmth from this morning is still under my skin. I have every reason to be fine, better than fine. I spent the night with a man I actually like, one who stayed, who kissed me goodbye like he meant it.

But sitting here, staring at the space where Midnight used to be, ridiculous is the word for me. I'm embarrassed that it stings, that he left with no explanation, not even a cheap "it's been fun, but I gotta go."