I reach for his hand.
He takes it.
And we walk across campus like that — just two people who found each other in the worst possible way and decided to stay anyway.
Chapter 70: Adela
It'sabaddaytoday.
Not a crisis. It’s just one of those days where everything feels slightly off, and nothing goes right.
I got a C on my Political Theory paper — the one I spent two weeks researching. My shift at the café ran long because someone called in sick. And now it's raining, the kind of Seattle rain that soaks through your jacket no matter how waterproof it's supposed to be. I should know better than to wear a windbreaker because it’s sticking to my skin, and it’s driving me haywire.
I text Beckett from the bus.
Bad day. Can I come over?
He responds immediately with his address.
Perfect.
I buzz up fifteen minutes later, dripping water all over his building's entrance.
He opens the door on the second floor and looks at me — wet and tired and probably pathetic-looking in his doorway.
He doesn't say anything as he steps back and lets me in.
I've never been here before.
In all the nights he's stayed at my place, all the mornings we've woken up tangled together, I've never seen where he lives.
I look around at the books stacked on the coffee table, the hockey gear by the door, and a blanket on the couch. The kitchen is small but clean. Everything is simple.
He goes to the kitchen without asking if I want anything and starts pouring something into two cups.
I sink onto the couch, pulling the blanket around my shoulders. It smells like him — clean and familiar and grounding.
By the time he brings me the mug, I can already feel my bad day starting to dissolve in the way it always does around Beckett.
"Thank you," I say quietly.
He sits beside me. "Rough day?"
"Just long." I take a sip. "Got a C on my paper. Café was hell. Everything felt off."
He nods and doesn't try to fix it. He listens.
We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, the rain hitting the window as I sip on my tea.
My phone rings.
Maeve.
I look at it for a moment, guilt twisting in my stomach. I haven't talked to her properly in weeks. I haven't told her half of what's been happening.
Beckett nods at the phone. "Answer."
I do.
