Her eyes were blank. She wasn’t angry. She wasn’t flustered. She was… done.
Luke’s heartbeat kicked harder.
“I thought we were on the same page,” he continued, hearing the tightness in his own voice. “Casual. No pressure. Nobody getting ahead of themselves.”
Nobody catching feelings.
He didn’t say that part, but the echo rang loud inside his skull.
Grace shrugged, “Maybe we were. Now we’re not. So I’m ending it.”
A sudden panic clawed at him. “You’re being ridiculous.” His voice was sharper, meaner than he intended. “Ending a perfectly good thing because you suddenly want—what? Romance? Candlelit dinners? That’snevergoing to happen.”
He was being a jerk. He just didn’t know how to stop. He opened his mouth—no idea what he planned to say—but the look on her face stopped him cold.
She still didn’t look angry.
Just resolute.
“Luke,” she said, sounding tired. Soundingdone. “Just go.”
Her voice was calm. Soft. Final.
The room felt too small, the air too thick.
“If that’s what you want,” he forced out, the words scraping his throat raw.
He stepped out of her house and when he turned back, she slammed the door in his face.
CHAPTER 7
Grace
Grace woke to silence.
For a moment she lay still, staring at the faint gray light filtering through her curtains. Her body felt heavy, like moving would require more strength than she had.
She blinked at the ceiling. Breathed in. Breathed out.
Then she sat up.
Mechanical. Automatic.
There was an ache beneath her ribs—her body reminding her that yes, last night was real. That yes, Luke had scoffed at her like the idea of loving her was impossible. That yes, she had ended something she’d never truly had.
She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and pressed her feet to the cold floor.
Good. The cold helped. It gave her something crisp and clean to hold onto.
She showered. Washed her hair. Stood under the hot spray longer than she meant to. By the time she got out, the mirror had fogged enough to blur her own reflection.
She preferred it that way.
She dressed carefully—soft sweater, long skirt. Professional. She needed to look composed. She braided her hair, smoothed it down her shoulder. Routine. Predictable. Something she could control.
In the kitchen, she made toast. She wasn’t hungry, but she had to eat something before class.
She took one bite of the toast. Chewed. Swallowed around the tightness in her throat.
