Twelve words. After permanently bonding me to him, after marking me as his for life, Nick left me twelve words on a Post-it note.
I press the paper to my nose, seeking some trace of his scent, some reassurance. There's nothing but ink and paper.
"I'm sorry," I whisper to the empty room. Sorry for what? For bonding me? For leaving? For not being able to love me back?
All of the above, probably.
A new ache twists in my chest—not just hurt, but a hollow feeling that I know comes from the bond itself. It stretches between us now, permanent and inescapable, protesting our separation. I read somewhere that new bonds need close contact to work properly.
Nick would know that if he'd asked. If he'd waited to talk to me before fleeing.
I force myself out of bed on shaky legs. My head pounds, my body aches, and there's this hollow feeling in my chest that I know comes from the bond. It stretches between us now, permanent and inescapable, protesting our separation.
Focusing on the practical stuff helps me stay in control as I make my way to the bathroom, but it can't stop the thoughts spiraling in my head. Nick bonded me. Permanently. And then he ran.
What does that say about what the bond means to him? What I mean to him?
Under the hot spray, I finally allow myself to feel the full weight of what's happened. Nick and I had sex. Multiple times. He formed a permanent bond with me. And then he left without saying goodbye because he needed to "think."
Think about what? Whether he regrets it? Whether he can stand being tied to me forever? Whether the bond was a mistake he can't undo?
The thought brings a fresh wave of pain, sharp enough that I have to brace myself against the shower wall. Nine years of friendship. Nine years of secret longing. And now, after everything, I might have lost both and gained a bond he never really wanted.
I finish showering quickly, dry off, and pull on clothes I find in Nick's dresser—a t-shirt that hangs loose on my frame and a pair of sweatpants I have to roll at the waist. His scent clings to the fabric, easing the bond-ache slightly but making the emotional pain worse.
Because this is what I have now, physical comfort from his scent while the man himself can't stand to be in the same room as me.
In the kitchen, I find more evidence of Nick's hasty departure: a half-empty coffee mug in the sink, his lunch bag missing from the refrigerator. But these aren't the normal signs of someone leaving for work. These are the signs of someone fleeing.
I can't do this alone. Not today. Not with everything so uncertain and the bond pulsing in my chest like an open wound.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I grab my phone and call the one person who has always seen me clearly.
Ellie answers on the second ring. "Hey, little brother. Please tell me you're not calling from work."
The sound of my sister's voice breaks what's left of my composure. "El," I manage, my voice cracking. "I need you."
Her tone changes instantly. "What happened? Are you hurt? Where are you?"
"I'm at Nick's," I say, struggling to keep my voice steady. "My heat's over, but...Nick and I bonded. I can't—I don't know what to do."
Silence on the other end. Then, very quietly: "What kind of bonded?"
"The permanent kind," I whisper. "And then he disappeared this morning because he can't think straight."
"I'm on my way," she says without hesitation. "Twenty minutes. Don't move."
The line goes dead, and I sit there holding my phone, relief and dread warring in my chest. Ellie will help. She always helps. But telling her everything means admitting the magnitude of what's happened. That Nick permanently tied himself to me and then ran away from it.
I spend the next twenty minutes cleaning up the apartment on autopilot, gathering sheets for the laundry, washing dishes, trying to erase the obvious signs of what transpired here. But I can't erase the mark on my neck or the bond in my chest or the devastating reality of waking up alone.
By the time Ellie's sharp knock sounds at the door, the bond-ache has intensified into a steady, insistent pull.
I open the door to find my sister holding a cardboard tray with two large coffees and a paper bag that smells like the cinnamon rolls from the bakery near her office.
"You look like shit," she announces, pushing past me into the apartment. She sets her offerings on the counter and turns to face me, arms crossed over her chest. "What happened? And where's Nick?"
"Work," I say, the word sticking in my throat. "He had to go to work. Apparently."