♫ I was reckless with your heart
I took for granted the gift that you handed ♪
{Jojo—Reckless}

"You were fantastic," said Michael, his voice conveying the opposite from his words, that boomed out without heart, without true praise. As if he'd rehearsed them to sound dull and lacking emotion.

Coralie felt so small, beside him. He was taller, sure; but tonight he towered over her like a building about to collapse. It was their relationship that was collapsing, in truth, and she had no magical tools to stop it.

It was her fault, she'd known that for months. And she'd told him the truth, unable to bear the idea of lying to him anymore. But why had he come to her, face-to-face? Why not send a text filled with puking emojis and telling her what a trashy girlfriend she'd been? Why shame her in person?

To berate someone in person was such a Ryan thing to do, and it wasn't Michael's style. The way he stood at a slight distance from her, tense, twitchy, radiating a calm fury that he kept from unleashing—it was so unlike him.

His mood rubbed off on her, and her earlier excitement at her successful show melted, dissipating as if it had never existed.

"Thank you." She hugged herself, becoming quite self-conscious of her light attire, and how last time she'd been dressed like this it had led her and Michael to having hot sex in his hotel room.

That won't happen again, I'm positive.

"But I have to ask." She rubbed her arms as a chill coursed under her skin. "Why are you here? How are you here? I'm confused."

Michael stiffened, somehow growing taller, gruffer. He wasn't snarling, and yet his upper lip looked ready to curl to reveal a set of worrisome white fangs. "It was on your Facebook." He pulled out his phone, searched for the post, and showed it to her. "I'm not blocked, remember? I can see your activity, and I saw when you were tagged in this."

Coralie sucked in her lips and nodded. "Right. Well, that explains the how." She winced as she heard the crowd in the distance, cheering at Mellie's arrival. "But that doesn't explain why."

To get away from the noise, Coralie guided Michael farther down the corridor, closer to the elevator she'd come up on. The air was cooler here, but there was less commotion, and they could hear each other talk. A slight draft came in from a side exit onto the rooftop, and Coralie enjoyed how the swift breeze lapped onto her cheeks and neck and cooled her down.

"I apologize for showing up without telling you," said Michael, shifting his feet. Though he still gave off the vibe of someone about to explode, his voice was calmer, softer. "I wanted to message you and give you a head's up, but I wasn't sure if you'd let me."

"Let you?" Coralie blinked up at him. "What do you mean? I'm the one who should be apologizing, and I can't apologize enough, but you wondered if you had permission to come see my show? Jeez, Michael." She spun away from him and pressed her head to the wall, its surface cold and soothing against her heated forehead. "Why are you so damn pure and perfect?"

He grunted, and she sensed him behind her, still distanced, yet his presence so strong, so on the verge of tipping into anger. How did he remain so composed in front of her? After what she'd done, what she'd admitted to? And on a piece of paper, no less?

"I'm not. No one is." He shuffled about, and next Coralie knew he was slanted against the wall, beside her. He was close—she felt his arms moving with his every breath. "I'm leaving in the morning, and I had to hear you sing one last time. Watch you perform."

Coralie's throat constricted.

One last time. So he's made his decision—we're over. He'll never see me again.

Michael deflated, losing all his near-threatening demeanors. His breath, hot and peppermint-scented, like the last night they'd spent together, conjured memories of his naked body beneath hers. She never should have caved, never should have gone to him that night; but the pull was too much, the attraction too obvious to ignore. And her heart had begged her for a chance to be near him, to gauge whether he was the one she cared for the most, or if she was only infatuated with the illusion of someone so kind and mature.

With him here now, about to reveal to her that he'd never forgive her, never let her into his bed again, she started to believe the former. Knowing she was about to lose him, she feared she'd fucked up by coming clean too soon.

"You're an incredible singer, and I can't help but be a little obsessed with you and your voice, as much as I hate to be." He didn't look at her, and instead glanced at the opposite wall, digging his hands into his jeans pockets. So vulnerable, so shy—he was like a child admitting to liking a movie star that his parents didn't approve of.

Coralie didn't know what to say, how to lessen the blow, how to ease the obvious tension in the air. She twisted away from the wall and leaned her back against it, like him, but kept her gaze on her shoes. "I'm sorry."

"I'm still processing what you wrote." Now he peered up at the ceiling and further shrank against the wall, as if about to sit and tug his knees up to his chest. He stayed upright, though, seemingly hesitant to walk away or crumble. "And tonight is bad timing, but I do hope for an in-person explanation, eventually. A real conversation about this, like adults; not a few scribbles on paper. You're better than that, Coralie."

She launched off the wall and groaned. "Am I? Clearly I'm not, and you said so yourself. Scribbles on paper—that's me, that's what I do." She didn't wait for him to reply—no need for it—and spun towards him, getting as much into his space as she believed he'd let her. Nose to nose, lips within reach. "I still don't understand why you're here. Tonight. After all this? How can you stand to look at me?" She scoffed and pulled away, folding her arms. "I can't stand to look at me. I'm not asking for your sympathy, here. Don't hold back. Don't be polite, Michael; I don't deserve it."

He straightened up, turning back into the blockade of broad chest and muscle that he'd been moments ago. No longer shriveled, and certainly no sympathy in his expression; only a deep-set frown and fists tightening at his sides. "No, you don't deserve it. But I don't deserve the quick lines you wrote for me. I deserve more than that, so I'll fight to get it. And if that means facing you, well, that's what I'll do. I said I'm processing, Coralie," he blew out a breath, "which means I've not yet decided how I feel about all this."

Something jolted inside her rib-cage. Was it her heart, piping up at the realization that there was still a chance? Or had she felt the jolt in her head, or much lower, between her legs? All her extremities went numb and she couldn't differentiate pain from pinching, pleasure from sadness.

"I'm moving to New York, regardless. But I want you to figure out what you want and need." Michael brushed a hand through his hair, miffing it up. Coralie caught a whiff of a spicy, floral after-shave and did her best not to inhale it ungracefully. "I'm unfortunately familiar with cheating, and I know there are deeper meanings behind every act. So I'm not walking away until I understand your meanings. There's a reason you did this; to me, to us, to yourself. To those other guys. And I can't say that I'll ever forgive you, but I'm not at that stage yet. For now, I want to understand. So let's talk again soon, okay?"

Without giving her an opportunity to reply, deny, cry, or ask for a hug, Michael sauntered towards the elevator, pressed the button, and disappeared behind the closed doors.

She was about to crash to her knees and allow her tears to tickle down her cheeks, but a snort from the opposite end of the corridor took her by surprise, halting her from moving altogether.

Footsteps approached as she turned to the new arrival—Ryan, steps tremulous, hands clenched, neck cords rigid and pulsating.

"The fuck was that about?" He glowered towards the elevator and rolled up his coat sleeves; but they were so tight, he barely managed to move them past his wrists.

"How the heck did you get back here?" Coralie pushed him towards where she and Michael had been chatting. "And how is that any of your business?"

His nostrils wrinkled as he gaped down at her; he, like Michael, was a brick of a man tonight, intimidating and stern, yet devastatingly handsome. "My name carries weight around here, doesn't it? I've done business in this very bar, agreements with the clothing line, sponsors, and such." He then snickered as he marched to the elevator. "And my business? Him being here isn't my business? Why was he here?"

She hurried over to bar him from pressing the button to call the elevator. The last thing she needed, on top of Michael's disappointment, was for him to go back to San Francisco bloodied and bruised.

"Stop." She used her body to cover the button up, and thrust her hips forward to shove Ryan off. Under other circumstances, the gesture would have been a sexy way to invite him to thrusting into her, too, but he didn't seem in that sort of mood. And neither was Coralie. "Why are you here? Ryan, we're on a break!"

"Oh, but you're not on a break with him, are you?" His chest heaved up and down, and she could have sworn thick tendrils of smoke swarmed out of his nose.

"Explain yourself first, then I'll tell you what's going on." She shoved him. "Why are you here?"

He scrubbed his face and seemed to shrink in size—only a little, enough to show that he was revisiting his ideas of violence. "I follow the bar's Facebook page, and saw you were performing. And... yes, we're on a break, and our last encounters have been bad, but this is huge, isn't it? So I wanted to encourage you, yeah?" His brown cheeks flared up, and he furrowed his eyebrows, regaining his angry posture. "But I see you didn't need me to, did you? Since that piece of shit was here—"

She jabbed a finger into his torso. "Don't you dare speak of him like that."

"You said you wanted space, but was that so you could spend more time with him, huh?" Unfazed by Coralie's attempts at deterring him, he nudged her aside and frantically pressed the elevator call button. "I thought you wanted me? I thought his moving here changed nothing?"

She grabbed his arms to move him, but he was rooted in place before the elevator. "What are you going to do, go after him and beat him up? What are you, ten? Come on, let him go. He didn't come to stir up trouble, and you shouldn't be either." She couldn't believe how calm she was, considering Ryan was on the precipice of rage and eager to throw punches at Michael.

What Ryan didn't know was that Michael, docile and composed as he was, could throw a punch or two himself—it would end in blood for both of them, and Coralie wouldn't have that. Not tonight.

"Then why was he here?" Ryan's fury continued in his voice, but his features shifted; his eyes drooped, his lips were down-turned, and his shoulders rolled forward in defeat. "What about me?"

"He was here to say goodbye," she said, turning away so he wouldn't see her flinch. It wasn't a full lie; but she couldn't tell him that Michael knew the truth, and that he hadn't decided whether or not to forgive her. That there was a slight chance she wouldn't lose him if she chose him, and she couldn't trash that possibility. Not when Michael was the most stable, responsible, caring man she knew. "He was in town for some interviews, and he's going home tomorrow."

Ryan tightened his fist and sent it towards the wall. Coralie recoiled, waiting for the impact of knuckles against plaster, but he slowed his pace and only rubbed against the surface, not even smudging it. "But he's moving here. It wasn't goodbye—it was see you later. He won't let you go, Cora. So you have to choose, and do it fast."

"Oh, you don't think I'm aware of that?" She set her fists to her hips. She'd had enough of everyone reminding her what she had to do, but not giving her the time she needed to focus on it. How was she to make a decision if they all kept popping up and harassing her?

The elevator dinged, and Ryan strode towards it. Coralie made a move to stop him, but he ripped from her grip, hurling her sideways and into the wall. He didn't mean to hurt her, she knew; but the contact of the smooth yet sturdy wall stung against her skin and she hissed.

"I'm not going after him," he said, slithering into the machine to select his floor. "I'm leaving. Make your choice, then, and fast. I've been waiting for too long, and I don't want to wait anymore."

♥♥♥