We Loved Until We Couldn’t Novel – Chapter 8
I don’t know where this side of me is coming from, but I shake my head and whisper, “Not even close.”
A slow grin spreads across his face. His fingers brush the underside of my bra, tracing lightly over skin that’s now covered in chills.
The air feels thick and electric — and just as my eyes flutter closed, a piercing sound slices through the moment.
A ringtone.
His hand freezes against me, both of us realizing at the same time — it’s his phone.
He groans softly, dropping his forehead against my shoulder. “Dammit.”
I frown when his hand slips out from beneath my shirt. He fumbles for his phone, pulls it from his pocket, and steps several feet away to take the call.
“Dr. Voss,” he says, voice clipped and professional now. He listens intently, one hand gripping the back of his neck.
“What about Roberts? I’m not even supposed to be on call right now.”
There’s a long pause before he sighs. “Yeah. Give me ten minutes. On my way.”
He ends the call and slides the phone back into his pocket, his expression dimming. When he turns to face me again, there’s clear disappointment in his eyes. He points toward the stairwell door.
“I have to…”
I nod, offering a small, understanding smile. “It’s fine.”
He hesitates, studying me for a moment longer. Then he raises a finger. “Don’t move,” he says, pulling his phone out again.
He walks closer, holding it up as if about to take a picture. I almost protest, though I don’t know why. I’m fully clothed — but it doesn’t feel that way. Something about the moment feels too intimate, too real.
The shutter clicks.
He takes a photo of me lying there on the lounge chair, arms relaxed above my head. I don’t know what he plans to do with that picture — but I like that he took it. I like that he wanted to remember what I looked like, even though we both know he’ll probably never see me again.
He stares at the photo for a few seconds, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
For a fleeting second, I think about taking a photo of him too — but I stop myself. I’m not sure I want a reminder of someone I’ll never see again. That thought alone feels strangely heavy.
“It was nice meeting you, Iris Hale,” he says quietly. “I hope you defy the odds of most dreams — and actually accomplish yours.”
His words tug at something inside me. I smile, both touched and a little sad.
I’m not sure I’ve ever met anyone quite like him before — someone from such a different world, a different rhythm of life. But somehow, for a few strange hours, we’d met in the middle.
Misconception confirmed.
He looks down at his feet for a moment, hands in his pockets, posture uncertain — like he’s caught between saying something more and walking away. Then he looks up one last time, his poker face slipping just enough for me to see the disappointment etched in the corners of his mouth.
He turns and heads for the stairwell door. It opens with a low creak, then closes behind him, and I listen to his footsteps fade down the stairs until there’s nothing left but silence and the hum of the city below.
I’m alone on the rooftop again.
But this time, the solitude feels a little lonelier than before.