Usually.
By the time I’m done, the kitchen floor’s so clean you could eat off it—not that anyone here would, but still. My body aches for a hot bath, but at least my head feels lighter.
For days, Jacob and I text like everything’s fine—little jokes, updates, the same half-hearted routine that used to mean comfort but now feels forced.
We talk around the tension, dancing over cracks we both pretend not to see. On the outside, I sound composed and collected.
But on the inside, there’s a storm pressing against my ribs, waiting for one wrong word to tear it open.
Sunday night rolls around and I’ve had it.
Me: Hey… been a minute since we’ve hung out. Want to come over sometime soon?
Jacob: Yeah, I’ve been meaning to see you. When’s good for you?
For half a second my chest relaxes. Hope is an annoying reflex.
Me: I’m free pretty much all week—perks of still being jobless, I guess. So… what works for you?
Jacob: I still have Mondays off…I could swing by your place then?
Me: That works. Late afternoon?
Jacob: Yeah, around 4:30–5. That good?
Me: That’s perfect babe. I’ll see you then.
My eyes dart back to the screen and the stupid little whisper crawls in. Why afternoon? What’s got him so tied up in the morning that he can’t see me—or should I saywho?
I crank up “Burning Blue” by Mariah the Scientist loud enough to smother the doubt, sinking into the lyrics, telling myself we’re fine. Like it won’t be frustrating enough thathe’soffensively fine. But I’m not about to let his looks get the best of me this time.
I need facts—I need to see his phone.
At least once. I just need one look, one confirmation, one punch of truth to shut my brain up. I’ll play it smooth, keeping him distracted with the assets God clearly didn’t give me to waste, and then—only then,will I find out the truth.
I have too, my sanity depends on it.
? ? ?
He shows up wearing gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips; Hilfiger waistband flashing like he knew exactly where my eyes were going to land.
And he’s right. I look without hesitation—my self-control doesn’t stood a chance. The light from the doorway traces the deep cut of his V, his arm slung casually along the frame, he’s posing on purpose.
But his eyes don’t match the casual act he’s trying to portray.
They pin me in place, stripping away most of my doubts with those big brown eyes. Warmth slams into me fast, embarrassingly fast, flooding my chest until it’s too hard to hold in.God, this man is fine.And just like that, the anger, the short texts, the overthinking—all vanish the moment hekisses my forehead, pulling me in like I’m the only home he knows.
Everything about him hits me at once: his Hollister cologne, his big, warm brown eyes that look right through me and make it impossible to think straight, the way he fills a doorway like he owns the air around him.
But the thought claws at the back of my mind.Don’t forget why he’s here, Jainey.Because this warmth can turn cold in a second, and I didn’t invite him here to play house today.
He thinks it’s just another normal Monday, but what he doesn’t know is today I’m not just his girlfriend.
I’m a girl on a mission. And he’s not leaving until I have answers—even if I have to dig up every ounce of courage I have to look him in the eye and ask him up front.
His kiss is still warm on my forehead as I tug him down the hall, my fingers intertwined with his. Normally Mondays are all about us—slow mornings that blur into afternoons of sex and sheets and nothing else.
But not today.
