I unbuckle my seatbelt slowly, fingers brushing over the cool metal before I glance at him.
“Thanks for coming,” I murmur. “And for… everything.”
Daniel turns toward me in his seat, one hand still on the wheel. “I meant what I said back there.”
I nod, throat tight.
“You’re one of the best people I know, Luke. A pain in the ass? Absolutely. But a good one.” He offers a soft smile. “You deserve to find your own version of happily ever after—without your parents’ bullshit, without their judgment.”
My chest aches. I don’t know what to say, so I just nod again.
Daniel reaches over and squeezes my hand. “And for the record? You’d make a hell of a real boyfriend for someone too. Not me. But someone.”
That gets a weak laugh out of me. “Don’t tempt me, you know I want what I can’t have.”
He winks. “Night, slut.”
I climb out of the car and shut the door behind me. He pulls away, the taillights fading into the street, and I stand there for a second, staring up at my building.
Alone again. But not unloved. Not tonight.
My room is quiet when I get in.
No music, no laughter, no Ty or Will playing video games, no Daniel spread across the mattress like a sleep-deprived octopus. Just me, the soft creak of floorboards beneath my shoes, and the leftover ache from trying not to care.
I drop my keys on the small table and toe off myshoes, heading straight for the bedroom. The second the door clicks shut behind me, my shoulders slump.
I replay everything.
The too-sweet smiles. The not-so-subtle jabs. The way Daniel stood up for me like I was worth defending. As though I mattered.
And then I remember the messages. The ones I didn’t open. The ones I didn’twantto open… until now. I grab my phone from the nightstand and drop onto the edge of the bed. My thumb hovers over the Prism icon for a beat before I finally tap it.
Seven messages. All from WhiskeyAndInk.
Silas.
My heart thuds. It’s not the hot, breathless kind of thud that happens when he’s touching me—it’s heavier. Messier.
I read each message slowly. The apology. The explanation. The heartbreak behind Xavier’s name.
By the time I hit the last message—I care. Too fucking much. My chest feels tight, like I’m trying to breathe underwater.
It changes things. Not everything. But something.
I stare at the blinking cursor for a long time before I start typing.
Me: I didn’t open your messages last night. I didn’t want to feel anything for you.
But I was lying to myself, and now I don’t know what the hell to do with that.
I hit send before I can overthink it.
Then I set the phone down and fall back onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling, wondering if anything in mylife makes sense anymore—or if I’m just finally admitting that I don’t want to stop wanting him.
The reply comes faster than I expect.
My phone buzzes once, twice. I grab it before it can make a third.
