My apartment, one I got all on my own after the divorce. One I worked so hard for.
The afternoon warmth gently streams through the delicate curtains, casting warm amber streaks across my beloved sage green velvet couch—my favorite piece of furniture. It carries a cozy scent of cardboard, packing tape, and the soft aroma of my bergamot candle flickering on the kitchen counter.
Rex paces around like he knows something’s changing, his claws clicking on the hardwood as he weaves between half-packed boxes.
I’m kneeling by the bookshelf when I hear Maverick step behind me.
“Need help?” Maverick says quietly, almost like he’s embarrassed to speak to me.
I don’t turn around. I don’t need him to see my face right now.
“No.”
He hesitates as he kneels beside me, the ghost of his fingers touching the nape of my neck. “You sure? I can take the heavy stuff, or?—”
“Don’t touch me,” I say, sharper than I mean to.
The silence that follows is immediate. He steps back without saying another word.
A moment later, the door closes behind him.
Good, I need the fucking space right now.
I need to process this move without someone hovering over me, trying to fix things I don’t want fixed.
I keep packing, carefully organizing my books into a box labeled spicy reads. I pretend the ache in my chest isn’t there and that this isn’t a goodbye to the only home I’ve created alone, even as I silently fall apart.
It’s almost an hour before I hear the door again.
Footsteps echo softly against the hardwood, slow and hesitant, like he’s not sure if he should be here. I don’t bother looking up from the half-folded box in front of me until I hear the faint sound of him shuffling in the kitchen.
I turn my head and blink, confused for a moment as the smell of chilled espresso hits me. It’s rich, with sweet cream, caramel drizzle, and bitter cold brew, all blending into the humid, cardboard-scented air of my apartment.
I glance up.
Maverick’s crouched slightly, balancing a paper bag on his arm while arranging six iced coffees on the vinylcountertop. His tall frame fills the narrow living room, with the sleeves of his worn tee rolled up his arms, and a faint sheen of sweat on his temple from walking in the LA heat. His hair is a mess, and for once, he looks…nervous.
“What is all this?” I ask, blinking.
“I, uh…” he starts, eyes flicking up to mine. “I cleaned out a mountain of cold brew cans when I straightened this place up. Figured you liked coffee, but didn’t know which kind. So…”
I stare at him.
He gestures toward the row of plastic cups, each one already sweating through the paper napkins he tucked underneath.
“…I got you six.”
The silence stretches for a beat.
Is this love bombing, or am I so traumatized from my past relationship that I can’t tell the difference anymore?
“You brought me six coffees?”
He shrugs again, then scratches the back of his neck. “Thought maybe it’d make packing suck less.”
I stretch and stand, feeling my spine crack. Without looking, I grab an iced coffee, condensation beads forming on the plastic, and take a long sip through the straw. The flavors of vanilla and sweet cream cold foam swirl on my tongue, and I softly moan internally as the cold brew moves down my throat.
It’s my favorite, of course.
