Page 29 of The Scout

Good. She was taking a second to breathe. To pull herself together. That should have been enough. I should have turned around. Should have left her to whatever storm was running through her head.

But then I heard it.

Soft. Strained.

A sound I knew too fucking well.

I stilled, every muscle in my body locking up.

Was she crying?

My fingers curled at my sides. The thought of her shaking, falling apart behind that door, made something sharp coil low in my gut. Maybe I should have handled things differently.

No.

I listened harder.

And that’s when I realized. She wasn’t crying. She was breathing—uneven, hitched. Her breath wasn’t broken with sobs. It was broken with something else.

Fuck.

That sound—low, breathless, the slight pause between exhales—wasn’t grief.

It was need.

Heat licked up my spine, sharp and immediate.

I braced a hand against the doorframe, exhaling slowly through my nose.

Jesus Christ.

I should have walked away. Should have left her alone.

But I didn’t.

I stood there, pulse thick, jaw tight, my body already reacting.

Because I knew those sounds.

And those sounds? They got me hard.

I shouldn’t have knocked on the door.

Should have walked away. Should have shoved my hands in my pockets, turned on my heel, and put as much distance between us as possible.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Isabel stood in front of the sink, her fingers curled around the edge of the counter, her body stiff with tension. The mirror above the sink was still fogged from the shower she hadn’t taken, the air thick with heat and the unmistakable scent of her.

She saw me in the mirror before she turned.

Her lips parted slightly, her cheeks flushed.

I closed the door behind me. Not locked. Just shut.

She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. She didn’t have to.

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