It’s not just sex, it’s obsession. A need that crawls under my skin and sets my blood on fire. But beneath all that passion, something quieter is taking root, sprouted from the seeds of our coffee-shop date. It’s when he pulls me closer in his sleep. How he presses a kiss to my temple without thinking. The wildflowers I find on my pillow, tiny, delicate things he must have picked himself. Once, it was a sprig of Queen Anne’s lace. Another time, a violet with a bent stem. Today I woke to a clover with four perfect leaves. He never says anything about them. Just leaves them there like little gifts, whispered secrets. Like he’s trying to tell me something in a language only he understands.
They’re stupid. Insignificant.
Except…they’re not. Because I keep every one of them pressed flat in a notebook tucked inside my drawer. Sometimes I open it.
Just to look.
Which is ridiculous.
There are times when I wonder if we’re falling in love, but then I tell myself no. This can’t be love. Not when it ends in six months. This is about need. About chemistry and proximity and fucked-up coping mechanisms…right?
I look back at Sam. “It’s not because of his name,” I say, my voice steady. “If anything, it’sin spite of it.”
I mean it. Sometimes, I picture a different Carrson, one with a normal last name, like Smith. He goes to my old school back in California. He plays pickup basketball after class and kisses me behind the gym. He asks me to the movies and brings me flowers that aren’t loaded with hidden meaning. That version of Carrson is light and carefree, and he’ll never leave me.
That Carrson is safe.
The realone isnot.
“I guess I can understand that, when I look at it from your perspective,” Sam says, nodding slowly. “What you’re saying about Carrson and all his complications.”
She pauses. The next part spills out in a rush, like if she doesn’t say it now she never will.
“When he first bonded you, I was furious.Soangry. Humiliated. I wanted you to pay for it, like seriously, I wanted you to suffer, but after a while, I realized in a strange way you gave me a gift.”
I’m glad it’s dark so she can’t see how my mouth drops open. “Really?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even.
She gives a small shrug, one shoulder lifting higher than the other. “I don’t love Carrson, and hedefinitelydoesn’t love me. Now that you’re with him, I’m free. Free to maybe, I don’t know…” She trails off, then finishes in a whisper so soft I have to lean in to hear it, “Find my own special person.”
A shaky breath escapes her. Then, louder, like she needs to believe it herself, “Maybe I can find my real Bonded. Someone who actually loves me, and I can love them back.”
For a moment, I don’t say anything. I just look at her,reallylook. I forget the power plays, the grudges, the bruises we’ve given each other. Let it all fade.
What’s left is someone brave enough to admit she wants more. Someone still hoping.
“I hope you get that,” I say, quiet but sincere.
She freezes, like she’s waiting for the punchline, but there isn’t one. Not tonight. Her eyes go glassy in the flashlight’s beam. “I didn’t think you’d say that. Thanks.”
I nod, knowing that’s all she needs from me.
We’re at the end of the tunnel. A large dark wooden door, studded with iron, looms ahead.
“This is it,” Sam says, her voice low. She hands me the flashlight. I grip it tightly, the beam quivering slightly as I aim it. She twists the massive door handle, its surface worn smooth with age. It resists her at first, groaning, unmoving. She grunts, jaw tightening, and mutters a string of curses under her breath.
With a sharpclick, it gives.
On the other side?
A broom closet.
Fluorescent lights hum overhead. Shelves of folded towels, stacked paper products, and bottles of industrial cleaner line the walls. A box of latex gloves sits open next to a dusty mop bucket.
I blink, thrown by the banality of it.
“Well,” Sam says, smirking as she steps inside, “welcome to Ashford House.”
The closet opens into the kitchen. Everything looks normal, polished, and domestic. A bowl of apples arranged like a still-life painting sits on the counter. I grab one without thinking and sink my teeth in. The crunch echoes in the silence, jarringly loud.
