We had dinner, then wandered the boardwalk. Damian had other plans—something that kept him away for most of the night. I only started to worry when I crawled into bed, worn out and alone, the space beside me cold. I waited for him. I didn’t mean to, but I did. I stayed there in the dark, listening. HopingI’d feel the mattress shift beneath his weight. Hoping for the press of his body behind mine.
But he never came.
Not until now.
I shift closer, slowly. His scent reaches me first—clean skin, soap, and something that doesn’t belong. A trace of cigarette lingers in his hair, stale and out of place. He doesn’t smoke.
My eyes move to the nightstand. His gun sits next to his phone. No effort to hide it. Just there, like it’s always belonged. A tightness forms in my chest that won’t loosen, no matter how deep I breathe. Something is definitely going on. Damian hasn’t been himself lately. He’s quieter now, but not in the same way he used to be. His silences once felt thoughtful, like he was weighing his words, choosing what to say with care. Now they feel hollow—like something’s been taken out of him and tucked away where I can’t reach. Not cold, not cruel, just distant. Like I’m watching him drift and I don’t know how to anchor him back.
And maybe he’s not drifting at all. Maybe he’s just pulling away from me.
I don’t know what I’ve done—or if I’ve done anything at all. I try to tell myself it’s just stress, or whatever he’s got going on in that closed-off head of his. But sometimes I catch him staring out the window, or watching me like he’s already halfway gone. And I wonder—if he’s thinking about leaving the East Coast. Leaving this place. Leaving me.
We’ve never talked about us. Not really. Not in the way that matters. I’ve tried, a few times—almost said the words. But every time I get close, he shuts me up with his mouth on mine. His hands on my skin. And God, it works. Every time. He kisses the questions right out of me, touches me until I forget I even had any. Until I’m too breathless, too wrecked, too wanton to care about anything except the next wave he pulls me under.
I hate that it’s easier to fall into a bed with him than into his heart.
He’s never said he loves me. I’ve never asked. I’m not sure which one of us is more afraid of the answer. But the truth of it sits between us, thick and heavy, waiting for one of us to break beneath its weight. And I don’t want to be the one who breaks first. I don’t want to be the girl who begs for something he can’t give. Who needs him to define whateverthisis. It feels foolish. Needy. But I can’t shake the feeling that if I ask for more, he’ll walk.
Still, part of me thinks he already has. Quietly. Without slamming any doors, without saying goodbye. Just... slipping through the cracks while I wasn’t looking.
Where was he last night?
I ease out of bed, careful not to wake him. My feet find the floor, and I stand in the hush of the morning, watching him for a beat longer. I tell myself I’m not going to look at the gun again. I do anyway. Whatever he’s keeping from me, it’s getting closer. Maybe it’s something dangerous. I can feel it pressing at the edges. I tiptoe out into the kitchen, needing an escape.
I start the coffee and lean against the counter while it brews, arms crossed over my chest, the hem of my sweatshirt twisted in one hand. The apartment is so empty and still. The only sound is the soft tick of the clock on the wall and the slow, familiar hiss of the machine as it fills the carafe.
The scent of butter and vanilla drifts up from the bakery below—warmth folded into sugar, cinnamon, and the sharpness of brewed espresso. It’s Friday morning. The weekend crew is already working. The storefront is probably glowing with trays of fresh croissants and glazes still drying.
I could go down there and find something else to focus on and silence the noise in my head. Instead, I stand still, trying notto read too much into an empty space beside me in bed all night and the gun sitting on the nightstand.
When the coffee finishes, I pour a mug and take a sip before it has time to cool. It burns just enough to distract me. I set the mug down and check my phone out of habit. Two messages. Neither from Damian telling me he’d be home late. Just another text I refuse to answer.
Lo, it’s me. Please don’t block me. I just want to talk.
I stare at it for a second before hitting the lock button. The screen goes black. My stomach doesn’t unclench.
The spare room door creaks open behind me.
Neve steps out slowly, barefoot, hair tangled from a restless night of tossing and turning. Dark moons bloom beneath her eyes that tell of sleep that never came.
She pulls her sleeves over her hands and squints toward the light. Her long chestnut hair falls in loose waves down her back, golden streaks catching the morning sun when she passes the window. Her face is delicate, almost doll-like, with wide brown eyes that seem too knowing for someone who looks so young. There is something fragile about her, like beauty caught mid-bloom and shadowed at the edges.
“You want coffee?” I ask, holding up my mug.
She nods without speaking, crossing the kitchen in quiet steps. I pour her a cup and slide it across the counter. She holds it between her palms like she needs the warmth more than the caffeine.
Neither of us says anything at first. She leans against the island. I stare into my mug.
“Did you happen to hear Damian come in last night?” I ask, keeping my voice soft.
Neve blinks slowly, then glances toward the hallway like she’s rewinding her memory. “About an hour ago,” she says. “Maybe less.”
My gaze flicks to the microwave clock. 8:03 a.m. He was out all night. I nod, swallow, and take another sip, even though it tastes wrong in my mouth now.
Neve watches me for a second too long. “What’s wrong?”
I don’t answer right away. The truth feels petty and bitter, like it doesn’t deserve to be spoken. “I didn’t know he was gone that long,” I say finally. “I guess I thought…” I stop and shake my head. “Doesn’t matter.”
