Before I can breathe out a syllable of protest, she hangs up.
I stare at the phone like it just betrayed me.
I wonder if he’ll be there.
Those eyes flash in my mind—piercing, impossible, and knowing—and my breath snags. There was something about the way he watched me at the party. Like he wasn’t watching the room at all. Like he already knew how I tasted. Like he was memorizing me cell by cell.
His sharp jaw, the way his suit clung to him, and the calculated way he cut through the crowd—predator smooth. It replayed all night in my head. Still does.
It’s ridiculous how much mental real estate this man occupies. I have real problems. Tangible ones. Tuition deadlines. Rent. Groceries. Not… whatever this is.
I hate that it's come to this—counting on a drug I shouldn’t have made in the first place. My parents would be horrified. They wanted stability for us. Safety. Then a drunk driver ripped everything apart. And now it’s on me to build something better for Ella from scraps and fumes.
Langport isn’t optional. It’s her way out. Her restart. I’ll bleed myself dry if that’s what it takes.
So why does my mind keep drifting back to him?
Who was he? Why was he at that party? And why can’t I stop imagining what it would feel like to see him again?
I’ll have to ask Cami. She knows every face worth knowing and a few that aren’t. Maybe she’ll give me a name.Something.Anything to explain why my pulse jumps when I think about him.
But having thoughts about him feels dangerous in itself. A luxury I don’t have the funds for. Still… my image of him lingers like a song I can’t quite shut off.
Atthe clinic, I slip into the old rhythm. Animals come in shaking and leave calmer, their people grateful, and eyes softer. It fills something in me, but it drains something too. Everyone always needs something, and I don’t have much left.
By the time I get home, the apartment is still. Ella won’t be back for a bit, so for the first time all day, the weight loosens enough to let me breathe.
I put on music. Something familiar. Something that pulls at the edges of who I used to be. And before I know it, I’m moving through the living room. Letting my body go where it wants. Hips, arms, and breath. For a moment—one brief, beautiful moment—I feel free.
And then it hits me mid-turn, sharp and terrifying.
What if I let myself play at the next party?
The thought chills me. I’ve been to parties before, of course. But always from the edge. Always observing, absorbing, and analyzing. Never surrendering to the current.
What would it feel like… to let go?
I think of the couples from that night—the raw intensity of them, the way the air itself felt charged, and the way desire moved through the room thick enough to taste. The memory steals my breath all over again.
The front door clicks open, and I freeze like a guilty teenager.
Ella kicks off her shoes. “Viy, I’m home!”
Music off. Fantasy gone. Mom mode engaged. “Hey, sweetheart! How was your day?”
She drops her bag and launches straight into a story about her biology project. I smile, nod, and drink her excitement like water after a long day. But the echo of my earlier thoughts lingers—quieter now, but still there, still pulling.
I watch her talk, her hands moving, and her eyes bright. And I remember why I’m doing this.
Every long day. Every risky choice. Every sleepless night.
For her. For her future. For Langport.
There isn’t room for anything else. Not him. Not the thrill of the party. Not the dangerous tug of what I almost let myself imagine.
I have a job to do.
Chapter 9
