Andrea froze.
So did Becca.
They turned.
And there she was.
Teresa.
Standing just outside the restaurant doors, holding a tray of cutlery she had gone to retrieve. Her eyes locked onto the scene Becca wrapped around Andrea, their lips barely pulling apart, their bodies pressed too close.
Her face crumbled. The tray clattered to the floor, silverware scattering across the wet pavement.
"Teresa—" Andrea stepped forward instantly, his voice shaking.
But she turned.
And ran.
Into the rain.
Barefooted and crying, Teresa ran down the sidewalk like she couldn't bear to breathe the same air. Rain soaked her hair, her dress, her skin. It didn't matter. She didn't stop.
Andrea shouted her name and ran after her, his feet splashing through puddles, his heart pounding harder than the thunder above.
"Teresa! Wait—please, wait!"
But she didn't. She didn't even look back.
The rain blurred everything lights, streets, thoughts.
Andrea's breath was ragged as he sprinted down the sidewalk. He could barely make out Teresa's figure through the sheets of rain, her soaked dress clinging to her as she ran without direction, just pain. Raw, aching pain.
"Tessa!" he yelled again.
She kept running.
When she finally slowed near the edge of an alley, panting, gasping for air, Andrea caught up to her. His hand grabbed her wrist not forcefully, just enough to stop her.
"Teresa—stop! Just let me explain!"
She yanked her arm free.
"Explain?" she gasped, whipping around to face him. Her eyes were wide, red, and glistening not just from the rain, but from tears. "Explain what, Andrea? That you were just making out with her? That you couldn't even wait a full day before crawling back to her?"
"I didn't—" He rubbed his forehead, soaked and frustrated. "It wasn't like that."
"Oh?" Her voice cracked. "Then what was it like? Tell me. Tell me why you were kissing her after everything we shared this weekend. After you held me, after you looked at me like—like I meant something!"
"You do mean something!" he shot back. "That kiss—it wasn't supposed to happen! I didn't plan it!"
"But you let it happen," she snapped. Her voice trembled, but she stood her ground. "You didn't stop her. You wanted it. And now you're here, trying to act like it was a mistake?"
He stepped closer. "I was confused—"
"Don't you dare," she cut in, her voice rising. "Don't you dare use confusion as an excuse. You chased me down to tell me what? That it didn't mean anything? Well guess what, Andrea—it meant something to me. And you just destroyed it."
"I was scared, Teresa! Alright?" His voice cracked, desperate now. "I've never felt like this before. I don't know how to handle it. You get under my skin. You make me—feel things I've been trying to forget."
"Then maybe you should've stayed away from me," she said coldly, stepping back. "If all you were going to do was play with me like some toy."
His chest rose and fell heavily. "I'm sorry."
"No, you're not," she whispered. "You're just sorry I caught you."
The thunder rolled again, distant now, as if even the storm was growing tired of their fight. Teresa looked at him for a long moment, then shook her head, tears mixing with the rain on her cheeks.
"I should've listened to my gut," she said, backing away. "You were never safe."
He took a step toward her, but she held up a hand. "Don't. Don't follow me. Don't talk to me. I don't want to see your face again."
"Teresa, please—"
"I mean it!" she screamed.
Her voice echoed down the empty street. She turned and walked away, slow but determined, like every step broke her but also made her stronger.
Andrea stood there, frozen, water dripping from his hair, his shirt, his soul.
And this time…
He didn't chase her.
********
The moment Teresa stepped into the house, her mother rushed to her side.
"Teresa?!" she gasped. "Oh my God—you're soaked!"
Teresa didn't answer. Her arms hung limply at her sides, her lips pressed together to hold back the sob that clawed at her throat. She looked so fragile, so unlike her usual quiet strength. Her soaked dress clung to her trembling frame, and her sandals left wet prints across the tiled floor.
"Tessa, what happened?" her mother whispered, gently reaching for her. "Talk to me—"
"I'm fine," Teresa managed, barely above a whisper. "I just want to rest."
Her mother didn't push. She could see in her daughter's eyes that something inside her had cracked. Something deep. Something no hug or warm towel could fix.
Teresa headed to her room, closed the door behind her, and leaned against it. She slowly slid down, her knees hugging her chest, the weight of the night pressing down hard. She didn't even bother changing out of her wet clothes yet. The only warmth she sought now…was in the memory.
Andrea's hands on her waist. His lips pressed against hers. The way his eyes softened whenever he looked at her. The way he fought for her.
And then… the image of him with Becca. Their lips locked. His hands grabbing her like she meant something. The same hands that had touched her with so much tenderness hours earlier.
She buried her face in her knees.
Her heart didn't just ache, it burned.
How could he?
How could he hold her like she was the only one that mattered… only to turn around and kiss someone else like she was disposable?
It hurt. God, it hurt.
And worse, she had kissed him back. She had wanted him.
Her first kiss.
Her first everything.
She finally got up and changed into something dry. When she lay down on her bed, staring up at the ceiling, her pillow slowly soaked with silent tears. Sleep didn't come easy that night, but when it did, it came with dreams of Andrea—good ones. Painful ones.
Meanwhile…
Andrea sat in his car for what felt like hours. The rain had stopped, but it hadn't taken the storm with it.
His shirt was still damp. His lip still tasted of Becca's gloss but all he could feel was Teresa's warmth… slipping away from him.
He'd messed up. Again.
And this time, it might not be fixable.
He raked his hands through his hair and let out a dry laugh at himself. He had always been the guy who didn't care. Who didn't get attached. Who played the game and moved on.
But Teresa wasn't part of the game.
She was real. Pure. Soft, but strong. And he'd tainted that softness with his mistakes.
Why didn't he stop Becca?
He knew why.
Because Becca was familiar. Easy. Lust without weight.
But Teresa…
Teresa was everything he didn't think he deserved.
He slammed his fist against the steering wheel. The frustration eating him alive. He couldn't lose her. Not now. Not when he'd just tasted what it felt like to be close to her. Not when she was finally letting him in.
But how could he even face her?
Back in Teresa's Room
She lay curled under her blanket, her phone-less hands holding her pillow like it could protect her from the ache in her chest. Her lips still tingled from their kiss earlier. She hated it.
No.
She hated that she didn't hate it.
That despite everything, she still craved him.
Still wanted to believe the look in his eyes had been real.
She turned to the wall and whispered to herself, "I won't cry for him again."
But she did.
Quietly. Hopelessly.
********
Andrea sat in the driver's seat, motionless, the soft patter of leftover drizzle tapping against his windshield like a restless heartbeat. His knuckles clenched the steering wheel, jaw tight, eyes fixed on nothing. The guilt was heavier than any storm. Teresa's eyes hurt, angry, betrayed kept flashing in his mind like warning lights.
Then came the knock.
Becca.
She opened the passenger door before he could react and slid in like she belonged there.
"Don't tell me you're sad because of her?" she said, smoothing down her soaked curls. "I'm the only one that can satisfy you needs, she can't."
Andrea didn't answer. Just leaned back, silent.
Becca tilted her head, watching him. "You look like shit. Want to get a drink?"
He didn't say no.
Dimly Lit Bar, Brooklyn
The bar was dim, smoky, and pulsing with low music somewhere between sultry jazz and underground pop. Andrea downed whiskey like it was water. Becca laughed, touched his thigh, leaned into his ear with breathy promises. She knew how to work his weak spots and tonight, they were raw and exposed.
"You know…" she whispered, fingers grazing the back of his neck, "it's been a while since we had a night that was just about us."
His grip tightened around the glass.
"I miss the way you used to fuck me," she murmured, her lips now dangerously close. "Don't you miss me?"
He looked at her and in that moment, what should've been hesitation melted into hunger. Not for her. Not even for pleasure. But for numbness. For distraction.
Hard. Needy. Lustful.
They stumbled into a private corner. Her laugh was breathless, his hands rough and searching. Clothes tugged. Lust won. And that night, Andrea lost himself completely.
He kissed her
Andrea pressed Becca against the wall, lips crashing, hands pulling her shorts down. His breath was uneven, shallow. Her moans filled the room, and every touch between them was a silent scream of chaos.
He wasn't thinking—just lusting. Drowning.
Becca's hands clawed at his shirt, pulling it off. He turned her around, she leaned on the wall with her back against him, her breath hitching in anticipation, and as he pulled her panties down and gripped her waist tightly, he inserted his dick into her and they moved with a rhythm that was all heat and no heart. He fucked her with aggression
But the whole time… her face wasn't what he saw.
It was Teresa.
Her innocent smile, her trembling lips, the way she blushed when he teased her. The way her eyes had glistened in the rain earlier that day. The way she had kissed him like it meant everything.
That memory… clashed violently with what he was doing now.
And yet, he didn't stop.
Becca whispered his name between gasps, her fingernails digging into his hands on her waist.
But Andrea felt nothing.
No warmth. No joy. Just a deepening void.
He finished with a grunt and immediately stepped back, chest heaving. Becca slumped forward, breathless and satisfied, while Andrea wiped his face with the back of his hand disgust rippling through him.
He couldn't even meet her eyes.
Becca turned to him, "You missed this, didn't you?"
Andrea didn't answer.
Instead, he pulled on his shirt silently, grabbed his jacket, and walked out into the cold night guilt flooding every inch of him.