Bix lies curled up in the sheets. Peaceful. Pretty. Off-limits now.
Yet some part of me—maybe the only real part left—doesn’t want to leave.
I grab a pen from my desk, intending to scribble a note. Something simple.Thanks. Take care.
Don’t make it messy, I tell myself.
But then I see her red diary, open on the chair. I almost walk away.
Almost.
But I can’t stop seeing her standing by the bookshelf last night, taking notes. At the time, I accepted her explanation. But a part of me didn't quite buy it.
And now, that diary—curled open, practically breathing—draws me in like a dare.
I glance over the first page. It’s book titles, just like she said.
But then...my name.
Not Sam.Slayer.
Her handwriting trembles on the lines.
1. Meet Slayer. 2. Get that record deal. 3. Achieve the dream.
Each word punches a new hole in my gut.
She knew.
She fucking knew the whole time.
Of course she did. Why else would some sweet, snarky little thing “accidentally” end up next to me at a hole-in-the-wall noodle bar at 2 AM? Laugh at my jokes. Pretend she didn’t know my face, my name.
She played me. Hooked me clean.
And I bought it.
Smiles, stories, sweet green eyes blushing with starlight. The whole act. The whole fucking sweet-girl-from-nowhere costume.
Her diary reads like a wish list.Meet Slayer. Get close. Make a move.Record labels. Dreams. Shots worth taking.
And I was the door she walked through to get there.
I slam the little book shut. Hard. Louder than I meant to.
No note. Not anymore.
All I can hear is the rush of blood and the echo of my own stupidity.
I shoulder my gym bag and walk toward the door. She’s still sleeping, wrapped up tight in the same sheets we tangled in.
Her chest rises slowly, eyelashes fanned against her cheeks, face open in sleep.
Fine.
Let her sleep.
If she’s smart, she’ll be gone when I get back. If not, I have staff who handle that sort of thing. They're used to closing circuits I never should have opened.
