The image of Quinn curled into my bed flashes in my mind. The way she folds the blanket before setting it aside. The way she orders pizza with my toppings without asking. Comfort to balance out my chaos. That’s what I want. And that realization hits harder than the tequila.
I leave not long after, calling an uber before I can overthink the fact that I didn’t stay. The hallway outside my apartment feels too quiet. I unlock the door and step inside carefully, setting my keys down quietly instead of tossing them like usual, in case she’s asleep. The habit surprises me.
The lamp in the living room is on. She’s curled on the couch again, blanket around her legs, phone in her hand. She looks up when the door shuts. Relief flickers across her face first. Then something more cautious.
“You’re late.” Her voice isn’t accusing. Just factual.
“I was out.” I’m being obtuse on purpose because it’s easier than being honest.
She studies me like she’s trying to read the rest of the sentence. “I sent you a couple of texts, but you didn’t answer.”
“I was busy.” The tequila loosens my tongue just enough to let the wrong thought surface. “Why’d you wait up?”
A beat of silence, the quickest flash of confusion across her features. “Because I wanted to see you.”
The simplicity of that should undo me. Instead, panic spikes and the tequila causes me to speak before my brain can react appropriately. “You’re gonna be gone soon anyway.”
“What?” Her brows pull together, confusion flashing across her face. “I didn’t-” she starts, the words catching like she’sabout to correct me. And then she stops. Something in her expression. Not doubt. Decision.
Her mouth presses into a thin line and before she can say anything else, I dig the hole I’m in a little deeper and speak again. “I mean, you’ve got your own place lined up now. Why pretend this is-” I wave vaguely between us, “permanent. You said it yourself; I’m a practical, temporary solution.”
The hurt in her eyes is immediate and quiet. Not anger. Not fury. Just disappointment. She stands slowly. Lifts the blanket. Folds it carefully in half. The movement is steady. Controlled. Intentional. She doesn’t slam doors. Doesn’t throw words. She holds the blanket against her chest like it’s something fragile.
Then she walks down the hallway and closes the guest room door behind her. And I get the distinct feeling that I just missed something important.
The click echoes louder than it should. The couch looks wrong without the blanket draped over it. The apartment feels colder instantly. I stare at the hallway long after she disappears.What the hell did I just do?
I scrub a hand over my face and lean back against the wall. You wanted her to reassure you. Instead, I shoved her away. I know exactly what I just did. And that’s the problem.
I don’t go after her. Not because I don’t want to. Because I don’t know how to fix it without admitting why I said it. And I’m afraid to say it out loud in case it’s not what she wants.
I wake reaching for her. My hand slides across empty sheets. The realization hits before I’m fully conscious. She’s not there. I sit up too fast. It’s too quiet. The apartment is silent. I throw on a pair of sweats and open the door to my room.
Her door is open. The bed inside is made. The bathroom is empty. The pair of flats she wore last night aren’t by the door. My stomach drops. She left. Of course she left. I basically told her to.
I move through the space like I’m searching for proof I missed something. The kitchen is clean. The coffee pot is empty. No note on the counter. The air feels thinner. For a second I stand there, staring at the front door like it might explain itself. And then, it opens.
She steps inside carrying a small paper bag in one hand and a bag of coffee beans in the other. A few loose strands of hair brush against her cheek from the wind. She pauses mid-step when she spots me. “We were out of beans.”
The air comes back into my lungs so fast it almost hurts. I didn’t realize I’d stopped breathing.She didn’t leave. She’s still here. Relief floods through me in a wave so strong I have to grip the back of the chair to steady myself.
But the tension doesn’t dissolve. It settles between us instead. Thick. Unspoken. Hovering in the air between us. She moves past me toward the counter, setting the muffins down and reaching for the grinder like this is just another morning.
And I realize how close I am to losing something I never meant to push away.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Quinn
I’m A Mess
Avril Lavigne, YUNGBLUD
The door swingsshut behind me and the lock clicks into place. He’s standing in the middle of the kitchen like he’s just run a marathon without moving. Barefoot. Hair a mess. Sweatpants low on his hips. Eyes wide in a way that makes my chest ache.
For half a second, neither of us speaks. “We were out of beans.” I hold up the bag slightly. My voice sounds normal. Steady. Like last night didn’t happen. Which is strange, because my insides are still shaking.
He nods once. Too fast. His fingers flex against the back of the chair he’s gripping. I notice it. I notice everything. “You left,” he states quietly.
