My laptop’s still on the nightstand. I sit up and open it, pull up the shared file Mason sent me for the Denver intake team. The intake file for Flores and Amador stares back at me—names I already know, a bullet-pointed history of violence, risk flags, court stipulations. Mason’s left a tight summary of their dynamic: dominance patterns, mutual trauma, a cautious interdependence masquerading as strategy. Normally, this would all stick. But right now, my prefrontal cortex is offline and my amygdala’s driving. Nothing lands. Nothing stays.
I read the same paragraph four times and retain none of it.
The room’s too quiet. Too clean. I close the laptop and set it aside.
My phone’s on the charger. I unplug it and thumb it open, meaning to scroll something stupid. Animal videos. Memes. Anything with movement and no emotional stakes.
I’m halfway through a reel of a cat leaping into a ceiling fan when the text comes through.
WYATT: Shipping the last of your stuff today. You good?
My heart clenches so fast it’s a full-body sensation. Everything inside me tightens, sudden and automatic.
I stare at the message. Don’t open it yet. Just look at the preview hovering at the top of the screen.
God, I miss him.
Not in the abstract. Not in some neat, intellectual sense of loss.
I miss the way he looks at me when I’m trying not to cry. How he listens when I’m already crying. How he just… stayed—through the complications, all of it. I asked him to help me prep for this assignment and he agreed without a single condition, without asking what it would cost him. Without asking what it would cost me.
He packed my entire apartment. Boxed every fragile thing like it was his own. Labeled everything in his careful, tidy handwriting. Sent me tracking updates and took the time to ask if I needed anything else.
He didn’t have to do any of that.
He did it because he cares. Still.
And I haven’t told him. Not about the test. Not about the appointment. Not about the way I fell apart.
I unlock the message. The words don’t change.
I don’t reply.
Instead, my brain does the thing I didn’t want it to do. The thing it always does when I’m tired and lonely and trying not to feel anything at all.
I remember his voice. That low, steady tone he uses when he’s half a breath from falling apart.
I remember Chris’s hand on my hip. Wyatt’s mouth on my throat. The way their bodies moved around mine—how seamless it was, how inevitable it felt. Skin against skin. Chris’s laugh, rough and hoarse, when Wyatt shoved him against the headboard. The way Wyatt kissed him first—no hesitation, no question.
Heat rushes low in my belly.
And then—something clenches.
I tense automatically, one hand sliding across my stomach. It’s not pain, exactly. Just pressure. A slow twist deep in the gut.
Cramps? I breathe through it. Wait.
My stomach growls.
Oh. Right.
I haven’t eaten all day.
Still, the sensation is enough to break the spiral. The heat fades. I pull the blankets tighter around my shoulders and swipe back to Wyatt’s message. Type out four words. Delete them. Type three more. Delete those, too.
Eventually, I land on:
NINA: We need to talk, but tonight’s not a good time. I’ll call in a few days. And thank you. For everything.
