Sabrina’s head snaps toward the sound. “NATHAN!”
He bursts out laughing.
I can’t help the smirk tugging at my mouth as she storms past me to yell at him.
Because for all her fire and fury… she’s still packing.
And by the end of the night, she’ll be coming home.
And I wouldn’t trade it for a damn thing.
The Way He Looks
Sabrina
My apartment has never been this loud.
Boxes scrape across the floor. Tape rips. Nathan’s narrating everything like it’s a sporting event, and Matthew—sweet, quiet Matthew, who I met approximately twenty minutes ago—is trying very hard not to touch anything without permission.
And then there’s Langston.
He’s standing in the middle of my living room like a general overseeing a battlefield, sleeves rolled up, jacket tossed over a chair, eyes tracking every movement like something precious might get damaged if he blinks.
Which is ridiculous.
And also… kind of wonderful.
I’m perched on the arm of the couch, hugging my knees, watching them move through my space—mythings being folded intohislife—and I keep replaying the moment from five minutes ago.
Matthew had reached for the stack of notebook and papers on my coffee table. The ones covered in messy handwriting,half-formed ideas, crossed-out names. My nonprofit plans. Myheart, basically.
Before I could even open my mouth, Langston had already stepped in.
“Careful,” he’d said sharply, moving closer. “Those stay together. Same order. Don’t bend the pages.”
Matthew had frozen. “Oh—sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Langston interrupted, calmer now but no less intense. “Just don’t mix them up.”
I’d stared at him, stunned.
Because he hadn’t pushed my thoughts to the side.
He’d just… cared. Enough to notice. Enough to protect something that mattered tome. The memory makes my chest ache in that quiet, dangerous way.
Nathan catches my expression and grins. “He’s intense, huh?”
I shrug, trying to play it cool. “That’s one word for it.”
Langston turns at the sound of our voices. His gaze lands on me, softening instantly, like the room recalibrates the second he sees I’m okay.
“You doing all right, sweetheart?” he asks.
Sweetheart.
The word still does something to me. Still makes me feel claimed in a way that doesn’t scare me—just steadies me.
“I’m fine,” I say. “You’re the one micromanaging.”
