Chapter 2 - Years Apart

Val

The door clicked shut, and the silence between us shifted. Heavy. Charged. One bed. No couch. No safe distance.

“I’ll take the floor,” Chris said, though the curve of his mouth betrayed the lie.

I swallowed. “We’re adults. We can share.”

“Adults,” he echoed, stepping closer, voice dropping low. “And adults can do whatever they want.”

Something in me trembled. I should’ve laughed, brushed it off. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. His eyes pulled me in, reckless and unrelenting.

The space between us snapped. His mouth crashed into mine—hungry, demanding, like years of restraint breaking all at once. I melted against him, gasping as his hands gripped me close, pulling me into the hard lines of his body.

“God, Val…” he murmured against my skin, his lips trailing fire along my jaw. “Tell me what you want. Don’t make me guess.”

The answer tore free before I could think. “I want you.”

Something dangerous and tender flickered in his eyes. He kissed me again, slower this time, deeper, as if trying to memorize the taste of me. My dress suddenly felt unbearable, his shirt too much of a barrier, but neither of us rushed. Every touch, every stolen breath, was a battle between restraint and surrender.

His forehead rested against mine, both of us shaking with the weight of it. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he whispered.

“Then don’t wait,” I breathed.

He laughed softly, almost broken, before gathering me into his arms. The world blurred as he lowered me back onto the bed, his body anchoring me, surrounding me. The kisses grew messier, our laughter dissolving into quiet gasps.

And when the rest of the night unfolded—slow, urgent, inevitable—it was less about heat and more about finally finding home in each other.

\~\~\~

We were still tangled in the sheets when Chris brushed his hand along my arm, gently waking me. His grey eyes found mine in the dim light, soft and unguarded.

“Thank you for tonight, Val,” he murmured. “Meeting you was unexpected… and the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time.”

My heart stuttered. “Can we—do you want to keep in touch? After this?”

“I’d love nothing more.” A grin tugged at his mouth. “Now hand over your phone.”

I slipped from his arms, gathered my scattered things, and passed it to him. He dialed; a second later, his phone buzzed on the nightstand.

“There,” he said, showing the screen. “That’s me. Call or text anytime. And if you don’t, I might just annoy you until you do.”

I laughed, a little breathless. The room felt lighter—like possibility.

He pulled me in for one more kiss, slow and lingering, then rested his forehead to mine. “Soon,” he promised.

We traded reluctant hugs while he dressed. At the door, he glanced back, eyes warm. “See you soon, Valerie.” He pressed a soft kiss to my forehead and slipped out.

I sank onto the bed, grinning into the pillow the moment the latch clicked. My legs were still unsteady, my pulse refusing to settle. Every kiss replayed in my head like a secret I couldn’t stop touching.

God. I couldn’t wait for more.

\~\~\~

For days after that night, I floated. My knees still weakened at the memory of his hands, his mouth, the way he whispered my name like it meant something. I thought it was the beginning of something real.

I texted him.

I called.

At first, I told myself stories—he’d lost his phone, changed his number, gotten swamped with work at UPenn. Maybe he was waiting until he settled in to call me properly. But days became weeks, weeks blurred into months and every unanswered message chipped away at my excuses.

No replies.

No explanation.

Like he didn’t exist.

Eventually, I had to face the truth. As perfect as it was, that night had been nothing more than a one-night stand.

\~\~\~

The years blurred. I buried myself in work, taking courses, drowned myself at baking, and eventually teaching economics at a local high school. My mother never missed a chance to remind me that I was “wasting” my degree, that I’d failed by not landing a university job or a respectable title. She made me feel small every time we spoke.

But Heartfelt High wasn’t so bad. The students made me laugh. I watched young love bloom in messy, dramatic ways—first crushes, first heartbreaks, the kind of reckless emotions I remembered too well. Sometimes I caught myself aching for that innocence again, when love hadn’t yet disappointed me.

Still, seven years slipped by, and with each passing one, the dream of something bigger felt further away, the only one who keep me sane is baking, and bring them to the class next morning. Kids love them, and seeing them always waiting for another best thing i made for them, trully warm my heart.

One day, Mary called. Monica’s mother, who had always felt more like a mom to me than my own.

“Hello, sweetie. How’s teaching?” she asked warmly.

“The usual,” I said, smiling into the phone.

She never let me wallow. “Well, listen. There’s an open teaching position at Heartfelt University. And I want you to apply.”

“Are you sure?” My stomach twisted.

“So sure,” she insisted. “You’ve got the degree, the experience. It’s time you stopped hiding in high school. I’ll send you the details. Promise me you’ll apply.”

I promised.

Heartfelt University wasn’t UPenn or Harvard, but its business and economics program carried real weight. And Mary—who had devoted nearly her whole life to this place—believed in me more than I’d ever managed to believe in myself.

That night, I sat at my desk with trembling hands, polishing my long-awaited resume. Every line felt like it carried the weight of years of effort, years of doubt, years of waiting for something more.

Was this it?

Could the dream I’d held onto for so long finally be within reach?

\~\~\~

The first interview went smoother than I expected. The committee smiled at my answers, nodded at my experience. For once, I walked out feeling like maybe I belonged.

The second was different. More important. This one was with the Head of the Business and Economics Department.

I scanned the document again. Professor Christopher Cornell.

The name twisted something in my chest. I thought of another Chris—the one who’d left me aching, ghosted me without a word. I almost laughed at the coincidence. Surely not him. Surely the world wasn’t that cruel.

“Ms. Valeria Rowan,” the secretary called, ushering me inside.

I stepped into the office. A man sat behind the desk, formal in a grey shirt and tie, brown hair neatly combed. He looked up.

Grey eyes.

My stomach dropped.

It was him.

Christopher Cornell.

Chris.

The very same man who had kissed me breathless and promised I’d never forget him—only to vanish for seven years.

I froze in the middle of the office, my documents hanging useless in my hands.

He looked up at last. His eyes met mine—and widened.

Recognition slammed into him, raw and undeniable.

Shock. Disbelief. And… was that guilt flickering there, too?

My chest tightened. My pulse roared in my ears.

This had to be a coincidence. Right?

It couldn’t be him. Not here. Not now.

And yet—Christopher Cornell. Chris.

The man who had ruined me once, standing there in a suit, as if seven years hadn’t passed at all.

\~\~\~

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