Neve doesn’t look away. “It kind of sounds like it does.”
I stare at the dark swirl in my coffee and try not to feel anything. “He’s never done that before.” The words come out flat. Not accusatory. Not angry. Just real.
Neve sets her mug down carefully. “Done what?”
I shake my head again. “Stayed out all night. Since we came back from Vegas three months ago, we haven’t slept apart.” We fall quiet again. There’s nothing else to say. Not without unraveling something I’m not ready to pull apart. Not yet. But the weight in my chest doesn’t ease. “There was a gun on the nightstand,” I say, my voice low.
Neve’s gaze flicks toward the hallway like she’s expecting him to step out any second. Her posture shifts. She shrinks slightly. “That’s not normal?” she asks, though it doesn’t sound like a real question.
“No,” I say. I hesitate. “He’s been different too. Distracted. Somewhere else, even when he’s right in front of me. And now he stayed out all night.”
Neve looks toward the closed bedroom door again. Her eyes narrow slightly before she turns back to me, voice low and steady. “He called me yesterday,” she says. “Said he needed a favor. That he wanted me here. With you.”
I blink. “What?” I thought she was just surprising me with a visit.
She nods. “He didn’t say why. Just told me to pack a bag. Booked me the first flight out here.”
I stare at her, the mug cooling in my hands, the air thinning around me. “He wanted you to come stay with me?” I ask.
Neve’s mouth pulls into something like a frown. “He said he’d explain more when I got here, but he hasn’t. I thought maybe you’d know what was going on.”
I don’t. And that terrifies me.
Neve and I fall silent at the sound of a knock. Three sharp raps, then nothing.
I glance at her, and for a moment we both just stand there. Not speaking. Not moving. Then I set my mug down and walk to the front door, cracking it open.
Bridger stands on the other side, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, jaw tight like he didn’t expect to see me. “Hey,” he says, voice low.
“Hey,” I echo, stepping aside so he can come in.
As soon as he sees Neve, he stops short. His eyes meet hers for only a second before he drops his gaze to the floor, then off to the side like looking at her too long might cost him something. “Neve,” he says, with a nod so small it’s almost nothing.
Neve lifts her chin. “Hey, Bridger.”
It’s only then I realize neither of us is wearing pants. Just long shirts and bare legs and sleep-rumpled hair. I clear my throat. “I’m going to go… throw something on.” I duck into my room and shut the door behind me. The quiet thud of it feels more final than it should.
Damian’s still asleep, sprawled across the bed like he owns it. He takes up more space than should be possible. The blanket has slipped low across his hips, baring the lines of his chest and the ink spread over his arms. All sharp edges and untold stories.Even now, something about him pulls at me, all heat and tension and impossible calm. I could look at him for hours and still not feel like I’ve seen everything. His dark hair is a mess across the pillow, lips parted just slightly. There’s a softness to him like this that he never lets show when he’s awake. God, he’s beautiful. And distracting.
I reach for a pair of leggings on the dresser and tug them on quickly.
His phone buzzes on the nightstand. I glance at it, more from instinct than intent. A name flashes across the screen.Reese. My stomach tightens. Under the name:
Don’t worry, she won’t find out.
I freeze.
I don’t touch the phone. I just stand there and stare at it like the message might rewrite itself if I wait long enough.
Is that about me?
The room tilts slightly under my feet. I don’t know whoReeseis. I don’t know whatthe textmeans. I don’t know if I’m allowed to ask. Because I don’t even know what we are.
My gaze darts back to him, still asleep, still peaceful. The same mouth that kissed me just yesterday. The same hands that worshipped my body like I was something rare. And now I don’t know if any of it meant anything to him at all. Is it all just sex between us? Is he sleeping with Reese too? Is that what I’m not supposed to find out?
I sit on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping beneath me, and stare down at my hands like they might hold the answers I’ve been too afraid to ask for. The message still floats behind my eyes, sharp and breathless, etched into the inside of my skull:Don’t worry, she won’t find out. The words twist. Loop. Rewind. Every time I try to tell myself it doesn’t mean what Ithink it does, another part of me speaks up and says it probably does.
We’ve only known each other for three months. A hundred days, if that. And most of those have been spent tangled in bedsheets, lips pressed to skin, breaths stolen between heartbeats and silences. But is that all we are? A long stretch of nights and pleasure sharp enough to distract us from asking what we’re actually doing?
