His mouth twitched as if he were fighting a smile. I could’ve murdered him.
“Yeah. I’m not done with you yet.”
“Oh mygod.Unlock the damn door.”
“Not until you calm down.”
“I’m perfectly calm.”
“Great,” he started. “Then let’s talk like adults.”
“Oh, really?”
“Valentina.”
That was all he said—Valentina—like he was the one who was being reasonable here and I was being dramatic. But he was literally holding me hostage.
I crossed my arms.
“I’m back from Chicago, which means the timeline picks up again.”
I blinked. “Timeline?”
“Our living arrangement. It’s part of the agreement. I want your things packed.”
“I amnotmoving in with you.”
“You are.”
I stared at him.
He stared right back.
“I’m serious,” he added.
“So am I,” I snapped. “I like my apartment. I like my stuff. I like my freedom. You think I’m going to walk into your place, your routines, your everything, and just ...fit?”
“It’s part of the deal.”
“So is pretending we don’t hate each other, and we’re not doing great on that either.”
“I don’t want to fight with you,” he said.
“Then stop giving me reasons to.”
He looked at me. Really looked at me. And I hated how long he held my stare. It was as if he was trying to memorize it. Like he didn’t trust I’d still be here when he came back.
“I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Packed.”
And with that, the lock clicked open.
I didn’t move at first. I just sat there, my hand on the door handle, my heart somewhere it absolutely shouldn’t be.
Then I opened the door and stepped out slowly, like my pride wasn’t screaming at me to say something petty and theatrical just for the hell of it.
I climbed the stairs to my building, keys already in hand, trying to pretend my heart wasn’t beating in my ears. I didn’t look back—not even once—but I knew he was still there. Watching. Probably hating me a little. Probably hating himself more.
I told myself I didn’t care. That I’d go upstairs, pour myself a glass of water, scroll through something stupid until the heat in my chest wore off.
