Erin shut the door after Jay disappeared into the elevator, but she didn't move. She stood there, frozen against the door, staring at the mirror. Who the hell was that woman looking back at her? She looked so… off. Way too pale, as if all the life had been sucked right out of her.
Why hadn't she put on at least a little makeup? She wasn't a girly girl—far from it—but she usually had her hair and nails done, and a little something on her face. Nothing fancy, just enough to feel more confident. She used to feel exposed without it, fragile even, like the cracks in her armor would show.
But around him? None of it ever mattered. She felt good, no matter what she wore, what she was doing or how she looked. With him, she could just be herself and do anything. She felt like she could conquer the world. We'll always have each other's backs. That's what he used to say. And she'd believed him.
But now that he was gone—again—it felt like he'd taken all her confidence with him. She turned away from the mirror, unable to face herself. She felt… wrong, empty. Like a lost soul.
Her fingers brushed her lips, and her heart sank. They were still raw, stained a deep red—not just her lips, but the skin around them. It looked like smudged lipstick, except it wasn't. It was him. His kiss. Their kiss.
She squeezed her eyes shut, but that only made it worse. The memory burned into her skin. She could still feel him—still feel them—breathing each other in. Desperate. Reckless. Unstoppable.
"I might not be married, but you are. And I can respect that. I promise." The memory of her own voice mocked her. Her words were now hollow and meaningless. Her promise had shattered the second she crossed the line—the second she threw herself into his arms.
Her hands curled into fists. Bullshit. Every damn word of her promise had been bullshit. She'd known it the second the words left her mouth. Hadn't she? Or had she actually been naive enough to believe them? Did she really think she would resist him?
She could still feel it—that moment when her lips crashed into his, the sheer desperation of it. The way they clung to each other, like letting go meant losing everything. She could still feel his arms steadying them, the way he staggered, caught off guard. Like he hadn't expected it despite how much he wanted it.
But he hadn't pulled away. Hadn't stopped her. Hadn't hesitated. Not even for a second. He kissed her back just as hard and desperate—like he'd been dying for it too. And she knew he had.
She'd been the one holding back all day. Why? She was not even sure anymore. But the second her resolve crumbled, there was no hesitation, no restraint. Not from her. And definitely not from him.
They had stolen each other's air, leaving them breathless, their lungs burning, until they had no choice but to break apart.
Her fingers brushed her lips, and she let out a bitter laugh. "I'm sorry." Yeah, right. The words had left her mouth so easily, but they'd meant nothing. She hadn't been sorry. Not even close. Not even a damn ounce. And neither had he. She knew that with absolute certainty. Not for that kiss.
Her legs felt weak, but she refused to move. Her mind was a mess—guilt, confusion, longing, love—all smashed together. She pressed her forehead to the cold mirror and shut her eyes. The apartment felt unbearably empty now, as though he'd taken all the warmth and light with him when he left.
"Damn it, Jay," she whispered, a tear slipping down her cheek. "Why does it feel like you took a piece of me with you?"
She continued to stare at her reflection as her eyes became red and tears filled them again. She wasn't proud of breaking her promise. But she didn't exactly feel shame, either.
She couldn't really tell what she was feeling. She had always believed in the loyalty of marriage, in being someone who wouldn't cross that line. What was the point of marriage if you didn't respect it? Cheating wasn't just breaking a promise—it was something she never thought she'd be part of. At least not knowingly.
But here she was—on the wrong side of that line. Not a cheater, not a homewrecker—that's not who she was, right? Still, she couldn't deny it—she'd kissed a married man. Not just kissed—taken. Claimed a piece of him for herself, with no regard for the consequences.
But she loved him. And she knew he loved her too. Did that make it any less wrong? Did it even matter?
Her mind spun back to the phone call. Hailey's name flashing on his screen moments after their kiss—Erin felt it like a slap to the face. A gut punch. A cruel joke from the universe. A reminder.
She had kissed a married man. But worse? She had kissed Hailey's husband.
Could Hailey have known? Could she sense the way their lips clung to each other, stealing breaths and sharing promises.
Erin couldn't imagine what it would feel like to be Hailey, to think that the guy you married, the guy you loved, was somewhere else, with someone else, his heart still stuck in the past.
And yet, she wasn't sorry. She wasn't proud, but she just couldn't summon regret. That kiss was real. Raw. And there was no stopping it. A moment that broke through years of longing, aching, and restraint. She touched her lips again—they still felt sore from his.
For the first time, the thought hit her like a punch—every kiss, every time they made love, every single intimate moment they'd shared years ago… he'd been married the whole time. Married to Abby. That thought hit her hard, and she tried to twist it into an excuse for breaking her promise. But that was the reality. He had always been married.
And the worst part? He hadn't even known it at the time. The marriage had been a stupid, drunken one-day Vegas mishap, something he thought he'd cleared up when he signed those divorce papers right away. But Abby never filed them. How the fuck do you go eight years without realizing you're still married? The absurdity of it was maddening.
In her defense, she hadn't known at all. Not then. Back then, Abby was just a name that had never come up, a mistake buried so deep in him that it didn't seem real. It wasn't something she could have even suspected. She hadn't been knowingly complicit in anything wrong. She had loved him, purely and completely, never imagining there was another woman out there tethered to him by some legal thread.
But now? Now she knew. She knew about Hailey. She knew Hailey! She knew about the vows he'd exchanged, the life they'd built together. And if knowing wasn't enough, there was that damn black ring. Sitting on his finger like a promise he had no intention of keeping. Like a knife twisting every time she saw it.
"We were not fine", he had told her. "I don't even know why I got married", "I left with no intention of going back," his words looped in her mind, feeding her conflicted emotions.
Blah blah blah, she thought bitterly. None of it changed the fact that he was still married, and that ring was still there, like a brand marking him as someone who didn't fully belong to her.
She thought again about Hailey's name flashing on his phone screen. How would Hailey have known? Or was it just a coincidence—an innocent wife calling her husband? HER husband. The words twisted inside her, sharp and unbearable.
She wondered if he called her back. If he made her promises too. If he had said to Hailey the words he didn't dare say to her.
Stop it! She was not a jealous woman. Never been. Right? Maybe when a stranger slipped a piece of paper with a phone number to her boyfriend… or when she heard him saying that a girl kissed his neck during a UC operation… or when she saw another woman holding his hand in the district… Was that pesky little pain in her heart what people called jealousy? She had just shoved it away.
But she trusted him. There was no reason not to. He was her boyfriend. He was loyal. He was hers.
But now? He was not loyal. And he was definitely not hers.
She closed her eyes. Took a deep breath. Steady yourself, Erin. You're being foolish. Ridiculous. He is NOT yours to begin with. Haven't been in years.
She turned to the mirror again, hoping for answers, but all she saw was the same stranger staring back. Her cheeks were streaked with tears, falling like they'd never stop. No effort, no control—just an endless, silent flood.
She was breathing hard, trying to pull herself together. But she couldn't. She tried to stop the tears with angry thoughts aimed at him. At herself. But she failed miserably…
Not mine. Hers...
Hers?
No… he said he didn't love her.
Yet, she is the one wearing the other black ring not me.
Fuck.
She pulled her hair out. Punched the door with both hands.
Ok. Breath. I can't be angry at Hailey. I know. I know I can't. She is not the one at fault. I am. I shouldn't have kissed him. I shouldn't have—oh fuck you, bitch! You knew I loved him. You knew he loved me when you stole him from me, didn't you?
But she had fled Chicago. She had ghosted him. She had broken him. And Hailey? She was the one by his side. She was the one trying to put him back together. Helping him. Loving him. She didn't deserve any of that. She knew.
I shouldn't have kissed him. I shouldn't love him this much.
She was still not sorry but part of her wonder if she should be. Does that make her such a horrible person? That she didn't regret? That she would do it all over again? That the only regret was not doing it sooner? How many lost opportunities did she have? Oh, she should have kissed him before. Every damn time.
She just couldn't stop the tears. Not with all these conflicting thoughts crawling in her head. Not with the echo of his touch lingering on her skin. Not with the memory of their last kiss still burning on her lips.
She glanced at the clock by the TV and felt her stomach drop. Over an hour. It had already been over an hour since he'd walked out that door, and she was still standing here, paralyzed in the same spot by the door.
Her thoughts kept spinning, caught in the same endless loop. She kept replaying it—him ignoring Hailey's call, shoving his phone back in his pocket like it meant nothing. The gesture had felt so bold, so wrong.
And then he had cupped her face, his palms warm and grounding, his thumbs gently brushing her cheeks. He had kissed her again. Only this time, it was different. This wasn't the desperate, soul-stealing urgency of their first kiss. This one was softer. Tender. It had melted her entire body, like a wave of warmth washing over her as if he'd wanted to remember every part of her through that kiss.
No doubt at all. He loves me. He loves me!
Her fingers hovered over her lips, tracing the warmth he'd left behind. How could something that ended so fast still burn so deep?
Tears kept falling. Unchecked. Endless. How much water does the human body hold? Was she going to cry it all out? she wondered absurdly. Ridiculous. But there it was anyway—one of those strange, irrelevant thoughts her brain clung to in moments of chaos. It was easier to focus on something small, something meaningless, than to deal with the enormity of what she was feeling.
"You gotta move, Erin," she muttered, but saying it aloud didn't make it easier. She knew he wasn't coming back. She knew there was no point in staying glued to the door, hoping for something impossible. He had to leave. He was already late, maybe even risking missing his flight. Was it awful to wish for that? To hope for some small, stupid miracle that would give her just a little more time?
He waited until the very last minute to leave. He didn't want to go, but he had to. So maybe? Maybe he wouldn't even make it in time.
She dragged her feet toward the bathroom. Every step felt like lifting lead. The second she flicked the switch, the light hit her like a slap. Too bright. Almost cruel.
When she'd remodeled the apartment, she'd insisted on having an abundance of lights in the bathroom. She wanted the perfect spot to do her makeup, to actually see herself in the mirror. She hated how dark her Chicago apartment had been, just like she hated the awful orange—or was it ochre?—walls in Jay's old place. God, she had despised those walls. But now, with the piercing light shining down on her, she regretted every bulb she had chosen.
Her reflection wasn't doing her any favors. Her eyes were swollen, red, like she hadn't slept in ages. The dark circles under her eyes screamed exhaustion.
Her gaze fell to her lips. The redness around them was starting to fade. No! She touched her fingertips to them, as though that could bring the color back, could somehow hold onto the evidence of his touch a little longer. But it was no use. The rawness their kiss left behind was fading, slipping away like he had.
The idea of it fading, gone forever, was too much. She pressed her fingers harder against her lips, her breath catching as fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. She didn't want it to fade. She wanted it to be permanent, tattooed onto her skin, a mark she could carry with her no matter where he was.
Her eyes dropped to the dog tag resting against her chest.
Halstead, Jason.
She ran her fingers over both tags, pressing them tightly together hoping they would never ever need to be separated. She knew they weren't just decorative—she knew he would get new ones—she understood the reason soldiers carried two identical copies. One to stay with their body if something happened, the other to be taken back. That thought made her stomach twist. Please God, keep him safe! She pressed them tighter together.
Lifting them to her lips, she kissed the cold metal gently. The weight of what they meant, of what it meant that he'd given them to her, wasn't lost on her either. "You gave me a reason to want to come back," he had told her. "I will fight for you."
He gave it to me. Not to her. Me.
Her knees buckled slightly, and she caught herself on the sink, gripping its edge with trembling hands. She dropped her head, her tears splashing against the porcelain, vanishing down the drain. She wasn't sure if she'd stopped crying at all since he walked out. It didn't matter. Her reflection didn't matter. The lights didn't matter. Nothing mattered except the aching emptiness that he'd left behind.
She spotted the reflection of her laundry basket in the mirror, and it shattered what little composure she had left. His shirt was there, perfectly folded, hanging over the edge. Of course, he hadn't tossed it inside. He was thoughtful enough to know she wouldn't want it washed, that she'd want to keep it just as it was. She turned and picked it up, clutching it to her chest. Her fingers tightened around the fabric, pressing it to her face, like she could still catch a hint of him.
And then, through the tears streaming down her cheeks, she laughed, a choked, bittersweet laugh, as her eyes fell inside the basket.
Her clothes from the day before were neatly folded, stacked with almost military precision. She shook her head, her laugh turning into a disbelieving chuckle.
He used to do this every damn time. Whenever he found her clothes on the floor, he'd fold them perfectly before putting them in the basket—just to mess with her.
That was how they were. That was what she missed most. The littlest silliest things. The little inside jokes, the mutual teasing, the mutual understanding. The partnership.
"What kind of psycho neat freak folds their clothes before putting them in the laundry basket!?" she murmured, her voice cracking under the weight of the memory.
She could hear him scoff, so clearly it was like he was right behind her. It was the same thing she had teased him about when they'd moved in together. The same words she had said to him back then.
She could picture him standing right in front of her, arms crossed, eyebrows raised, looking at her like she had committed some unspeakable crime.
"Five years and you still leave them on the floor?"
"I don't do it that often anymore!" She would say it, defensive, laughing. "I was just in a hurry to get out of the bathroom yesterday."
"Yeah, right," he would fire back, smirking. "They were just by the basket on the floor! That makes absolutely no sense, Erin!"
"And folding them neatly before putting them in makes total sense, right?" she would say, hands on her hips, grinning.
She hugged his shirt tighter. She was doing it again. Having fake arguments with him in her head. The words played out so naturally, so vividly, it was as though they were happening in real-time. She could predict every reaction, every rebuttal, every grin and sigh. And she missed every single one of them.
Her knees buckled, and she slid down to the floor, still clutching his shirt. The laughter faded, leaving nothing but silence and the sound of her uneven breaths. "God, Jay," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "You're not even here, and I still can't win an argument with you."
The room felt so empty, but she couldn't stop herself. The fake arguments, the phantom conversations—they were all she had left. And right now, they were the only thing holding her together.
They were so different, yet they fit together in ways that didn't make sense to anyone else but them.
He needed the structure, the discipline, the rigid lines of the army to put himself back together—to rebuild the parts of himself that had broken. Maybe he was right. Maybe he really needed this time to himself.
But "eight months—give or take—to start," he had said. Just thinking about it made her chest tighten like a fist had closed around her heart. How was she supposed to survive eight months without him? Without his laugh, his touch, his maddening ability to know exactly what she was thinking without her saying a word?
It had been over five years since they'd last seen each other. Five years since they'd exchanged so much as a single word. Five years where she had told herself she was fine, that he was gone, and she could live with that. And she had. Or at least, she thought she had. But now, after just 27 hours with him, the thought of facing another eight months—just eight months—felt insurmountable.
How had he undone her so completely in such a short time? Was it the way he looked at her, as if she was the only person in the world who truly knew him? Or was it the unspoken promise in his eyes every time he said her name, the way he touched her like he was memorizing her all over again?
She leaned against the wall, her legs weak beneath her. Twenty-seven hours had been enough to reignite everything she had worked so hard to bury. Eight months felt like an eternity. But what choice did she have? She had to let him go, trust that he'd come back.
If he comes back…
No. He will.
The doubt crept in before she could stop it, and she clenched her fists. No, she wouldn't allow herself to think that way. He'd promised. And this time, she believed him. But believing didn't make the ache any easier. It didn't make the hours ahead feel any shorter.
Twenty-seven hours to rekindle a fire that had never truly gone out. Eight months to keep it burning. Could she do it? She didn't know. But she'd have to try. Because this time, she knew in her heart he was worth waiting for.
But what if… what if waiting wasn't enough? What if, eight months from now, she was just another part of his past?
A/N: Erin's emotions are all over the place right now, and honestly, can you blame her?
We are going to dive deep inside their heads. Oh, and if you think the waiting is going to be easy… well… ;-)
Let me know what you think!