[BL] CRAVING HIM: Addicted to His Voice-Chapter 236: When Distance Hurts More Than Words
~Evric’s POV~
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, his voice calm, which was worse than yelling. "If I let you move into my apartment, or if I let you come over every day, what would be the point of leaving? I need distance. I need to be alone, or I won’t know if I’m staying because I love you, or because I’m scared to leave you."
He paused, and the look of exhaustion in his eyes was profound. "I’m not doing this to hurt you. I’m doing this to save myself."
He didn’t wait for a response. He simply turned and walked out of the room, leaving me standing in the center of the vast, quiet bedroom, utterly alone.
I stood there, paralyzed for a moment, the silence rushing in to fill the space where his love had been. A harsh, tearing sob ripped from my throat. I crumpled onto the floor, the pain in my chest eclipsing the physical coldness of the polished wood.
After a long time, the desperate, hysterical crying subsided, leaving me exhausted but numb. I pulled myself up, the realization settling in: he was downstairs. He was separating our things, creating the distance he needed.
I waited until I was sure he might have settled down, maybe even fallen asleep on the downstairs sofa from sheer fatigue. Moving slowly and tentatively, I went to the linen closet and retrieved a thick down comforter and a large, soft pillow.
I crept downstairs. The lights were off, but the pale moonlight streaming through the tall glass windows revealed Zayn curled up on the velvet sofa, his body a familiar, heartbreaking shape of weary defeat. He had already fallen asleep.
I approached quietly, my movements silent, and gently lifted his head, sliding the soft pillow underneath it. He didn’t stir. I eased myself down beside him on the sofa, gently covering us both with the blanket.
I turned onto my side, bringing my face close to his. I pressed a feather-light kiss to his cheek, breathing in the scent of him one last time.
"I’m sorry, baby," I whispered, the words barely audible. "I never knew my actions would get us here, that it would separate us like this."
I ran my fingers through his hair, my eyes burning with unshed tears. "If I ever get a chance again, I swear I will make sure I don’t mess it up. I hope when you’re outside there, you take good care of yourself."
I lingered for a moment before letting the final, devastating words fall. "I love you, Zayn."
I wrapped my hand gently but firmly around his waist, pulling him in close, resting my chin on his shoulder. He shifted slightly, a natural, comfortable reflex, settling his weight against mine so we were both cocooned and secure under the blanket.
Finally, wrapped around the man I loved deeply, I fell asleep.
I woke up to the feeling of being intensely observed.
My eyes fluttered open, and there was Zayn, awake, staring directly at me. He was propped up on one elbow, his expression utterly unreadable, neither angry nor forgiving, just a well of exhausted sorrow.
We stared at each other for a long, silent moment, the intimacy of the night before hanging in the air like a cruel joke. I instantly regretted the comfort I’d stolen.
My hand was still possessively wrapped around his waist. I made a reflexive attempt to close the distance, leaning in to kiss him good morning, but he flinched, pulling back just enough to deny me.
"Remove your hand, Evric," he said, his voice quiet and flat.
I instantly withdrew my arm as if I’d been burned. He stood up without another word, the blanket pooling around my legs, and walked towards the stairs.
I followed him up, my heart pounding a panicked rhythm. He went straight to the master closet. He stripped off his pajamas, letting them drop to the floor, and stood there, utterly and gloriously naked, before pulling out his small, battered leather suitcase.
He began working, folding shirts and trousers with meticulous, practiced care. He moved around the room, completely unselfconscious of his nudity.
This was a new, cold kind of torture. He knew how much I loved his body, how quickly I reacted to him, yet he moved with complete indifference, packing the bare essentials he needed for his exile.
My body was a traitor. I sleep on the bed, feeling a desperate, aching hardness rise beneath the duvet. He was punishing me by offering me a beautiful feast I was forbidden to touch.
Zayn, meanwhile, seemed intent on proving just how untouchable he was. He walked right to the chest of drawers that stood directly in front of me, bending over deeply to retrieve some skincare from the bottom drawer. His back was arched, taut and beautiful, his ass cheekily winking at me. He lingered there, pretending the skincare was complex geographical maps, before straightening up slowly.
I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from saying something pathetic. This was deliberate. This was his passive-aggressive seduction to make me suffer.
Finally, he finished packing. He picked up his case, he walked into the bathroom. I heard the shower turn on, and a few minutes later, he emerged, fresh and steaming.
He wrapped a towel low around his hips, the knot perfectly positioned to draw attention to the sharp lines of his abs and hips. Then he picked up a bottle of body lotion and began his slow, deliberate ritual, massaging it into his skin with languid strokes. Each movement highlighted the sculpted definition of his chest and arms, the soft glow of the lotion catching the light as he moved.
He was pure, devastating visual pornography, and my control was completely shredded. My breathing was ragged, my muscles shaking with the effort of holding still.
I couldn’t take it anymore.
I stood up, pushing the duvet away, and walked toward him, moving with the heavy, uneven gait of a man in physical pain. I stood directly in front of him, staring at the perfectly sculpted man who was intentionally ruining me.
Zayn paused mid-motion, his hand hovering near his neck, the bottle of lotion forgotten. His gaze lifted to meet mine. "What happened?" he asked quietly.
I didn’t answer. I reached down, shaking, and took his hand. I brought it straight to the hard, throbbing bulge beneath my pajama trousers, pressing his palm firmly against my erection. I needed him to feel the immediate, agonizing effect he had on me.
Zayn’s gaze dropped to my hardness before returning to my face. "What does my touch have to do with your cock, Evric?"
"Almost a month," I gasped, the words raw and pleading. "It’s been almost a month since I’ve had real sex. I need to touch you. Please. Just allow me to touch you, only."
Zayn laughed. It was a short, bitter sound that cut deeper than any yell.
"You haven’t had sex?" he repeated, one eyebrow arched in sharp sarcasm. "What about the one you had with your ex? You must’ve enjoyed it so much, you two probably went seven rounds, right? So why do you want to touch me now? Go find the person who satisfies you that well. Please, just let me be."
I had no defense. He was right.
The urge was agonizing; my whole body was tightening, demanding release, but his cold, justified anger was a wall I couldn’t breach. I staggered back a step, the need burning in my chest, a palpable, shaking desperation.
I walked back to the bed and collapsed onto it, snatching the duvet and pulling it high over my head, burying myself. I accepted the punishment. I deserved every single second of this unbearable ache.
The silence was broken only by the rustle of clothes as Zayn finished dressing. He zipped his suitcase shut and rolled it off the floor. I could hear his footsteps approaching the bed.
"I’m leaving, Evric," Zayn said, his voice flat, standing somewhere near the foot of the bed. "I’m not coming back... until I’ve sorted things out. I’ll call you when I want to come back for the rest of my bags."
I couldn’t move. The fear of separating from him, the shame of the confession, and the crushing physical pain of my unaddressed desire all mixed into one agonizing knot in my throat. I couldn’t bear to watch him walk away, knowing that sight would be burned into my memory for three months.
Just as the doorknob turned, the finality of the sound forced a whisper from beneath the thick blanket.
"Zayn..."
He stopped, his hand still on the handle.
"Take good care of yourself," I whispered, my voice choked with tears. "And remember... I’m sorry. I love you so much."
I heard a small, hitching sigh from his direction, but no reply. The door opened, the suitcase wheels scraped briefly on the hallway floor, and then the door closed, leaving the room silent and empty.
The moment the door clicked shut, the last of my resolve shattered. I ripped the duvet off my head and curled into a tight ball, crying out loud, the sound raw and desperate, mourning the loss of the man who had just left me alone with my guilt.
