My window is closing, and I am not taking him back to the shelter. I’m not. I can’t. I’ve made a lot of questionable decisions this year, but putting Waffles back into a concrete cage is not going to be one of them.
Which leaves me with one option.
A terrible, pride-annihilating option.
I don’t even remember making the decision.
One minute, I’m walking across campus. The next, I’m standing outside Rowan King’s building, staring up at it.
It’s tall, with exposed brick and likely soundproof walls. Which is honestly ideal for a guy who traffics in secrets.
Waffles shifts inside my hoodie. I tighten my arms around him, and he rests his chin on my chest.
I stare at the intercom panel for a long, painful moment.
R. King. Apartment 4B.
You know what else lives in 4B? My blood pressure. Because it’s currently four beats away from a full-blown breakdown.
I stand there, frozen. Maybe someone will swoop in and offer me a better option.
Nope.
Nothing.
I press the buzzer.
The intercom crackles.
“Yes?”
His voice is calm and slightly bored.
I clear my throat. “It’s me.”
“I know.”
Of course, he does. He probably installed a facial recognition program. Or has some ancient sixth sense for when I’m about to humiliate myself.
“I need help.” The words taste bitter on my tongue.
There’s a pause. A long one.
Then—
Bzzz.
The door unlocks.
No questions. No smug comments. No “Oh, how the tables have turned.”Just… access.
And that’s somehow worse.
The elevator ride to the fourth floor is the longest thirty seconds of my life. Waffles is too still, and my pride is hanging by a thread.
I reach his door and stop.
What am I even going to say?
