I Dumped Him When He Wouldn’t Touch Me

I’d just set the painkillers back on the nightstand when Adrian clicked off his lamp.

I scooted closer, my fingers brushing the cuff of his pajama sleeve. “Don’t turn your back on me tonight, okay?”

He didn’t look at me. He simply lifted my hand off him. “Nora. I’m up at five.”

“I’m not asking you to do anything.” My eyes stayed on the back of his neck. “I just… want you to hold me for a second.”

He went quiet for two beats, then turned over—only it felt like he was checking something off a list. A perfunctory kiss, so short it was like he’d missed on accident. His hand didn’t even stay at my waist. It barely touched, then pulled away.

“That’s enough,” he said. “You’re still recovering. Don’t push it.”

Don’t push it.

It hit like cold water. I stared at him, wanting to ask how many follow-up appointments he’d actually gone to with me. How many times he’d even noticed when I woke up in pain at night. But before I could get a word out, he rolled over again, back to me.

That was when his phone rang.

Not the default ringtone—something custom. Adrian practically sprang up, fast enough to make his “I’m tired” feel like a joke. He snatched the phone, and the screen lit up in his hand. I only caught a sliver of the caller icon—pale gold at the edge.

He hung up immediately.

“Who was that?” I asked.

“A client.” He cupped the phone in his palm, his voice too flat. “Losing their mind in the middle of the night.”

I looked at him. He didn’t look back. He got out of bed and walked toward the bathroom with the phone.

“You’re bringing your phone to shower?”

His steps paused. “Need to confirm tomorrow’s schedule.”

The door shut.

A moment later, the water started. I didn’t move, just sat there on the bed, staring at the door. Behind the frosted glass, his shape was only a blur. Every so often, a flicker of screen light flashed through a crack—then vanished.

Ten minutes later he came out, hair still damp, face wiped clean like nothing had happened.

While he rubbed his hair with a towel, he held his phone out to me.

“Book me a ticket to Seattle for tomorrow.”

I didn’t take it right away. I looked at him first. “That urgent?”

“The client moved the pitch up.” He set the phone on my leg like it was the most normal thing in the world—so natural it was like that call, that bathroom door, those minutes of running water were all in my head. “I need to land before nine. Book the return for the afternoon the day after tomorrow.”

I picked up the phone. It was already unlocked. The chat list was almost too clean, like it had been scrubbed on purpose—recent contacts were only project groups, an airline account, and Miles.

“Your card or are you expensing it?” I asked.

“Use the joint account for now.” He walked into the closet. “I’ll reimburse it when I’m back.”

The joint account.

He said it lightly, like it was just a convenient payment method—not the last thing in our marriage that still had both our names on it.

I opened the booking page. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him standing in front of the wardrobe. He was supposedly picking a shirt, but his gaze kept cutting to the mirror—watching my hands on his phone.

“What time?” I asked.

“As early as possible.”

“And the hotel?”

“The client will handle it.”

No hesitation. Like he’d rehearsed it.

I stopped right before payment. I didn’t hit confirm. “Are you going alone this time?”

He finally turned and looked at me, his expression faint, like he was weighing whether my question was casual—or something else.

“No,” he said. “Miles is going too.”

He pulled out a tie, voice steady. “If you don’t believe me, he can back me up tomorrow.”