Page 101 of After Midnight

She didn’t ask for my help, didn’t ask me to be there for her. But of course she didn’t—Remi handles everything on her own, even when she’s the one who needs help. She never tries to put her burden on anyone else’s shoulders.

Even though mine are perfectly capable of helping her carry it.

I call Ashton’s number. She answers on the second ring, and I can hear her treadmill in the background.

“What’s up?” she asks, sounding slightly winded.

“I need the week off,” I tell her. It’s not a question, not a request. I’m already off the couch, walking down the hallway to my bedroom, where I grab my duffel bag from the closet and start throwing shit into it, not bothering to pack nicely.

“Is everything okay?” Ashton asks. There’s beeping behind her, like she’s slowing the treadmill down to focus on our conversation.

“I don’t know.” I grab a pair of shoes and shove those into my bag, then add a hoodie on top. “But I’ll be out of town this week.”

“Okay,” she says softly. “Do you need me to book you a flight? A car? Anything?”

“No.” I wedge the phone into the space between my shoulder and ear, holding it up while I zip the bag closed. I probably don’t have half of what I need, but I really don’t give a fuck.

“I’ll handle everything,” Ashton says. “We can reschedule some of the stuff we have planned for this week. And if you need me, call, okay?”

For the first time since Remi answered the phone, I get a small smile—a real one, rather than that fake shit I was trying to show Remi. “I will. You’re the best, Ash.”

She gives a little breathy laugh. “I know. Now be safe, wherever you’re going. And I’ll talk to you next week.”

I tell her goodbye and hang up the phone, then immediately look up the next available flight to Vegas out of LAX.

And I make sure I’m going to be on it.

chapter 47

Remi

I’M ON MY COUCH, WATCHING an old comfort anime, when there’s a soft knock on my door. Immediately, I freeze, muscles going tight, as if moving will alert them to my presence. My gaze slides away from the TV and toward the hallway to my front door, but even that movement feels dangerous.

Is it him?

Holding my breath, I wait for another sound, a voice from the other side of the door.

Whoever’s on the other side knocks again, and fear floods my veins.

Part of me wants to pull my blanket over my head and squeeze my eyes closed until whoever it is goes away. And I almost do it.

But that instinct makes me mad.

I shouldn’t have to be afraid in my own home. This has been my safe space for years, and I’ll be damned if I let a man take that from me.

Heart beating harder, I push up from the couch, then walk quietly though the living room and down the hall, pausing briefly to grab the baseball bat I keep in the entrance closet for moments just like this—not that I’ve ever needed it before. Its weight feels good in my palm, and I squeeze my fingers around it firmly, then take a breath before moving closer to the door to look through the peephole.

My breath catches in my chest, and my heart almost stops.

The bat slips from my fingers, clattering onto the hardwood floor, and I flip the locks and tear the door open before another breath has passed my lips.

Seb stands on my porch, illuminated by the soft porch light, a pizza box held in his hands and a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. A car is pulling out of my driveway, its rideshare light shining neon in the darkening evening.

And he’s . . . here.

“Seb,” I whisper. Then I’m throwing myself at him, making him fumble with the massive pizza box, one arm coming around me as I press my face to his broad chest. I breathe him in, that familiar scent that reminds me of his bed, his truck, the comfort of his arms. His grip on me tightens, and I twist his T-shirt in my fingers, almost not believing that he’s here right now.

“Hey, Rem,” he says softly, his voice a breath of warm air against the top of my head.