I swallow, letting the moment settle.
I wrote something. Something new and real.
And as much as I don’t want to admit it, as much as I don’t want Ethan to have this kind of hold over me… the spark came the moment he shut down on me, the moment the space between us snapped tight, painful, and full.
I close the notebook, hugging it to my chest.
It feels like breathing for the first time in months.
My phone pings from somewhere under a pile of throw blankets. I twitch, the sound slicing straight through the little bubble I’d been floating in.
I set the notebook down carefully — like it might break if I handle it wrong — and fumble for the phone. The screen lights up with Banks’s name.
Of course.
Two texts.
Banks:Your stalker’s parole is denied again. You’re safe.
I exhale so hard my chest caves a little.Safe.It’s a word I never trust, even when it’s true, but seeing it there… written…Something loosens in my ribs.
The second message pops up before I can reply.
Banks:Lay low a bit longer — and don’t bang the lumberjack neighbor.
A startled laugh escapes me; it’s sharp, breathy, too close to a choke. Jesus. I rub my face, shaking my head. Banks’s version of “don’t” is just his backwards way of saying “get on with it.”
Trust Banks to give me peace and havoc in the same two-second window.
I sink onto the couch, phone still in hand. My heart should be hammering after a message like that because it usually is. But instead, there’s this strange, unfamiliar warmth threading through me.
Parole denied. I’m safe. For now. For longer than now.
And suddenly… I can see it. A sliver of something that looks suspiciously like a future. One where I’m not drowning, not flinching at every shadow, not waiting for someone to drag me back into hell.
A future where my head isn’t a locked room. Where music still lives in me. Where I can breathe.
Before I can overthink it, I hit call.
He picks up on the first ring.
“Finally,” Banks says. “I was about to send a search party. Or at least a snarky follow-up text.”
“I saw,” I say, voice shaky despite me. “The parole thing.”
“Yeah.” His tone softens instantly, that warm, steady rumble he gets when he’s trying not to spook me. “You’re good, Lu. He’s not going anywhere. Judges don’t like creeps who break into pop stars' bedrooms while they sleep and, among other shitty stuff.”
I groan. “Don’t remind me of that night.”
“Sorry, sorry. Banished. No more haiku of doom.”
Despite myself, I snort.
There’s a beat of quiet, the good kind — the kind that feels like breathing, not punishment.
“You okay?” he asks.
I sink deeper into the couch. “Weirdly… yeah. I mean, my chest is doing that stupid fluttering thing, but I’m not freaking out. Not really.”
