[BL] CRAVING HIM: Addicted to His Voice-Chapter 235: The Night He Chose Space

~Evric’s POV~

Then, with a strangled cry, he shoved past me, yanked the bathroom door open, and stormed out without looking back.

I collapsed onto the wet, cold tiles of the floor, the sound of the shower and my own hysterical sobs the only things left in the room.

I didn’t stay down for long. The panic of his escape was a cold whip. I scrambled to my feet, shaking, and forced myself to finish showering, scrubbing every inch of my body as if I could wash away the confession, the act, and the name. But the tears wouldn’t stop, mixing with the water and running down my chest.

I pulled on a clean pair of pajamas, moving quietly, deliberately. I knew what I had to do. This wasn’t about saving myself; it was about giving him the facts he deserved, even if he threw them back in my face.

I sat on the edge of the mattress, close to his stiff back.

"Zayn," I began, my voice hoarse and raw. "I know I don’t have the right to speak, and you already warned me, you said if I ever slept with anyone else, that was the end. I’m not explaining this to justify myself. I’m telling you so you know the truth."

I swallowed hard, the taste of salt and guilt thick on my tongue.

"I went out the day you left, after losing my biggest status. I drank too much, and I passed out. That’s all I remember. Then I woke up in Nicki’s bed."

I rubbed a shaky hand over my face, my throat tightening. "I don’t remember how I got there, or what happened between us. But Nicki said we had sex, and he recorded a video. He’s been using it to blackmail me ever since."

My chest ached as the words left me. "Zayn, please... you have to believe me. I never wanted any of that to happen."

I took a shaky breath. "But that doesn’t matter. I take the blame for everything. If I hadn’t gone out that night, if I hadn’t acted without thinking, Nicki wouldn’t have had his way. I should have been stronger. I should have waited for you."

I reached out, but stopped short of touching him. "I’m sorry, babe. I am sorry that I brought this kind of filth into our lives. If you tell me to go, I will. If you can’t forgive me, I understand."

I fell silent. Zayn didn’t move. He didn’t flinch, didn’t sigh, didn’t offer a sound of acknowledgment. But I knew he heard everything. I felt the tension radiating off his back, a solid wall of hurt.

The night stretched on, endless and agonizing. I eventually climbed under the covers, lying on the furthest edge of the mattress. I couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the tears on his face in the shower. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the dawn, afraid that when I woke up, the first words out of his mouth would be the declaration of a breakup.

The next morning came, but the breakup never did. There was no shouting, no confrontation.

Zayn didn’t leave me, didn’t even raise his voice, he just... disappeared in plain sight. It was like he turned into a ghost, moving through the house without a sound, without looking at me.

He was meticulously polite and distant. He cooked breakfast, setting my plate down without meeting my eyes. He served dinner, but spoke only in monosyllables if I initiated conversation. Inside the bedroom, he created a vast, invisible chasm between us. He claimed the very edge of his side of the king-sized bed, facing the wall, his body rigid and unapproachable. This measured, controlled silence was a poison, slowly killing me. It was worse than any fight we could have had.

This distant, agonizing dynamic continued for two more nights.

Then, on the third night, after another silent dinner and after we were both in bed, Zayn broke the silence, his voice flat.

"I need to go back to my place for a while," he said, still facing the wall.

My heart sank immediately, the sound of the duvet shifting seeming like the final closing of a coffin lid. He didn’t say he was moving out, just that he wanted to stay at his old apartment and ’do some things.’ But I already understood what that meant.

I didn’t answer immediately. He didn’t wait for a response; he simply lay back down, settling his head onto his pillow.

"How many days are you staying there?" I finally managed, my voice sounding weak and low in the dark.

He paused, a long, devastating silence before he answered.

"Until everything I need to do there is over," he said.

I tried to pin him down, to grasp at a thread of certainty. "Like, two, three days? Or a week?"

Zayn rolled onto his back, finally looking at the ceiling, though still avoiding my gaze. His answer was a cold, fatalistic period at the end of our sentence.

"Less than three months. I will be done by then."

The number hit me like a physical punch. Three months. That was the time he needed to decide if he was leaving me, time to mourn what we had.

"Three months?" I whispered, sitting up, pulling the duvet off my legs. I felt suddenly cold. "Zayn, you want to go back for three months? Why? What are you going to do there?"

He turned his head slowly, meeting my eyes for the first time since the confession. The look was devastating, not anger, but profound, quiet sorrow.

"I need to breathe, Evric," he said, his voice low and devoid of emotion. "And I can’t breathe here right now. I need space to figure out who I am now that I know everything you just told me."

He closed his eyes, cutting off the contact, and then added the final, cruel measure.

"I can’t look at you without seeing his face."

I stared at the ceiling, trying to reconcile the cold reality with the man who had just climaxed so violently in my mouth.

"You chose three months of distance because you know," I whispered, the words trembling. "By the end of three months, you’ll have gotten over me. I’m not stupid, Zayn. You’re trying to break up with me without hurting me, aren’t you? Is that not exactly what you’re doing?"

The tears started again, hot and stinging.

Zayn sighed, finally sitting up, turning to face me with a look of utter weariness. "Can you stop crying already, Evric?" he said, his voice void of comfort. "Even if I don’t say anything, I’ve seen you cry enough for the past three days. It doesn’t help."

He forced a tiny, heartbreakingly brittle smile, trying to sound light, trying to deflect the pain. "You’re Evric Dreaven, don’t forget it. It won’t be hard for you to find someone new."

The careless cruelty of the joke was the final straw. He stood up, turning his back to me, and walked toward the bedroom door. He was going downstairs.

I moved faster than I thought possible. I shot off the bed, crossing the distance in a panicked leap, and threw myself against his back, wrapping my arms tight around his waist.

"No," I choked out, pressing my face hard into the clean fabric of his pajamas. "Please, don’t leave me. Please, I can’t do this without you."

My apologies tumbled out, desperate and repetitive. "I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I know sorry isn’t enough, but I love you! I swear I love you more than anything, Zayn!"

I gripped him tighter, the panic making my words chaotic. "I can change! I’ll do anything you want. We can fix this! If you can’t stand to look at me during intimacy, I understand that, I can be the bottom! You can top me! I’ll never ask you to look at my face again. I’ll cover my eyes! I can be the bottom so you won’t need to look at me anytime we’re intimate. Just don’t go!"

My breath hitched on a sob. "Please, Zayn! Don’t let him win! Don’t let Nicki break us! Don’t break up with me!"

He remained stiff and silent in my arms.

"If you leave, if you need that space," I pleaded, my voice breaking completely. "Can I come to you? Can I move into your place for the three months? I’ll sleep on the couch! I just need to be near you!"

Zayn gently, firmly, peeled my arms from around his waist. He stepped away and turned to look at me, his face utterly weary.

"Evric," he said...