He nodded at my Crocs. "I hear that."
We kept walking in opposite directions.
I climbed the three flights to my apartment. Inside, everything was exactly as I'd left it. Jacket on the floor. Dishes in the sink. Itsmelled like stale air and the faint ghost of burnt toast—nothing like the warm bread-and-pine-soap safety of Hog's place.
The haunted chair creaked once in the corner.
"Shut up," I told it.
It settled into silence.
I sat on my bed. Pulled out my phone.
Opened a new message to Adrian.
I could write a novel, explaining every hurt feeling. I could make him understand exactly what he'd done, how it had landed, and why it mattered.
Or I could just tell him what I needed.
I started typing.
Pickle:Counter-doc terms if I agree: final cut approval, full veto rights, and team consent. No time limit on my decision. Non-negotiable.
I read it three times.
No big emotions. No invitation to convince me.
My conditions.
I hit send. The message showed as delivered immediately.
Then three dots appeared.
I watched them pulse. Once. Twice.
No response came.
Part of me had wanted him to fight. To argue. To try to negotiate his way back into my good graces with pretty words and promises.
Part of me was relieved he didn't.
Was he learning? Or was it too late?
I didn't know which I wanted more.
I set my phone on the nightstand. Plugged it in. Turned off the ringer.
Then I lay back on my bed and closed my eyes.
The power had shifted, and I wasn't giving it back.
Somewhere between that thought and the next, I fell asleep.
Deep. Earned. Unguarded.
No bracing for impact.
Just rest.
