The flight back was torture.
I’d curled up in the co-pilot seat, face pressed against the cold window, eyes closed, trying to will my stomach into submission. Drew said nothing, just flew the plane with a clenched jaw and white-knuckled controls.
Every bump of turbulence made me swallow hard against rising bile. Every dip in altitude sent my stomach lurching. But I held it together. Barely.
“Almost there,” Drew said quietly, and I wasn’t sure if he was talking to me or himself.
When Chicago appeared below us—all steel and glass and sharp edges—relief flooded through me. Home. Or at least the closest thing I had to one.
The landing was smooth. Drew always landed smooth, like he could make the plane do anything he wanted with nothing but will and precision. As soon as the wheels touched down, I was unbuckling, ready to bolt.
My car was waiting on the tarmac. I grabbed my bag and headed for it, already planning the shower I’d take, the bed I’d collapse into, the hours of sleep that might make this constant exhaustion go away.
Drew’s hand closed around my arm.
“You’re not going home,” he said.
I turned to face him. “Excuse me?”
“You’re staying at my place.”
“The hell I am.”
His grip tightened slightly, not painful but firm. Immovable. “You can barely stand, Cassandra. You’re sick. You’re exhausted. And I’m not letting you go back to an empty apartment where you’ll push yourself until you collapse.”
“I don’t need—”
“I don’t care what you need.” His eyes were steel. “You’re coming with me. That’s not a request.”
I should have fought him. Should have pulled my arm free and told him to go fuck himself. But the truth was, I didn’t have the strength. My body felt like it belonged to someone else—heavy, uncooperative, barely functional.
So I sighed. Defeated. “Fine.”
“Good.”
He guided me to his car, one hand on the small of my back like he thought I might fall over. Maybe I would have. The world felt tilted, off-balance, like gravity had shifted, and I couldn’t quite find solid ground.
The drive to his place was a blur. I leaned my head against the window, watched Chicago slide past in streaks of gray and gold, and tried not to think about how badly I’d fucked everything up.
When we got to his apartment, I barely made it through the door before my legs gave out. Drew caught me, lifted me like I weighed nothing, and carried me to his bed.
“Sleep,” he said, pulling the covers over me.
I didn’t argue. Just closed my eyes and let the darkness take me.
***
I slept the entire day. Then the entire night. When I finally woke up, the apartment was silent and empty, sunlight streaming through the windows in harsh afternoon angles.
Drew was gone. Work, probably. Or maybe he’d finally gotten sick of playing nursemaid to a woman who couldn’t keep her shit together.
I sat up slowly, testing my body. The nausea was gone, thank God, replaced by a hollow emptiness in my stomach that felt almost normal. My head was clearer too, though the exhaustion still clung to my bones like lead.
I got up, found one of Drew’s shirts in the closet, and pulled it on. It smelled like him—clean soap and something darker, something that made my chest ache in ways I didn’t want to examine.
In the kitchen, I made coffee. Strong. Black. The kind that could wake the dead. Then I sat at his table and let myself think about the things I’d been avoiding for days.
Seattle. Father Vincent. The truth I’d been running from my entire life.
