And the ice cream?
She hadn’t cried. That was what haunted me. She hadn’t cried—she’d apologized. Over and over. Like she was afraid. Like she expected me to shout, to snap, to break something just to prove I could.
It wasn’t the cone.
It was muscle memory.
I set the glass down on the counter, untouched. The granite was cold under my hand, grounding. I stayed there, unmoving, staring into nothing while the truth circled like a vulture in my chest: She’s been taught to shrink.
And I hated that.
She was made of wildfire and sarcasm and bright, inconvenient honesty. She should’ve never had to learn how to go quiet just to stay safe.
And yet, now here I was—standing in a kitchen full of shadows, wondering if I had any right to keep her close. I didn’t want to be just another man with rules and conditions. She deserved space. Safety. A place to grow louder, not smaller.
But a darker thought twisted in the back of my mind: What if I wanted more than that?
That was the part I didn’t trust in myself.
I dragged a hand through my hair and turned back toward the living room. The house felt too still. She was still curled on the bed, small in my hoodie, barely moving. Peaceful.
And all I could think was: Let her sleep. Let her breathe. Let her be mine only if she chooses it.
Because anything else?
Would make me no better than him.
I leaned against the counter, eyes fixed on the stairs like they might answer something I couldn’t.
She was up there.
Wrapped in my sheets. Wearing my hoodie. Breathing easy in a room that had never held anyone but me. Safe, for now.
That had been the whole point—thirty days. Just thirty. Keep her out of Mikel’s reach, give her space to breathe, keep things simple.
But nothing about this felt simple anymore.
Every time I looked at those stairs, my chest pulled tighter, like something unseen had wrapped itself around my ribs and started to squeeze. It wasn’t about the bet anymore. It hadn’t been for a while. I could lie to myself, call it protection, duty, decency—but that wasn’t what twisted in my gut when I thought about her.
It was the question: What if this was more?
What would she do if I said something?
If I crossed that line?
Would she smile—soft, surprised, maybe even happy? Or would she go still the way she did when she braced for disappointment? Would she look at me like I was just another man who wanted too much from her?
I didn’t want to be that man.
But I didn’t want to be the one who let her go, either.
I pressed the heels of my hands against the counter, grounding myself in the cold stone. The kitchen felt too quiet, the shadows too long, my own thoughts echoing too loudly in the stillness she’d left behind.
She chipped away at me without trying—every laugh, every sarcastic quip, every goddamn reality show rant. The way she talked with her hands. The way she curled up on my couch like she belonged there. Like maybe she wanted to.
And it terrified me.
Because what I felt wasn’t careful. It wasn’t slow. It was fire beneath ice—quiet until it burned through everything.
