The annotations are dense — someone's gone through this copy with real intention, underlining specific passages, leaving notes in the margins in handwriting I can't quite read from this angle. I tilt the book toward the window light and make out two words next to a paragraph about the nature of fear.
They never learn.
I close the book and press my fingers against the cover.
I don't know who he is. Don't know why he was watching me long enough to notice I'd been stuck, or why he had that specific book within reach, or why the whole interaction left me feeling less like I'd been helped and more like I'd been assessed.
I pick up my coffee. It's completely cold.
I pull my laptop back toward me and try to find the paragraph I was on before he appeared. I can't remember where I was. I scroll up, then down, then give up and stare out the window instead.
Theo.
Chapter 25: Adela
Beckettisasleepbesideme, one arm draped across my waist, his breathing deep and even.
I study the way his dark hair falls across his forehead, the fading bruises on his face now more yellow than purple, the gentle rise and fall of his chest.
Then I look at the bruise on his ribs.
The one that's my fault. The one he got because masked men broke into my apartment and beat him while I sat tied to a chair, helpless.
Guilt flickers through me, sharp and immediate.
I carefully extract myself from his arm and sit up, pulling my knees to my chest. The sheet falls away, and the cool air raises goosebumps on my skin.
I'm not doing this again.
I'm not replacing one man with another. I'm not jumping from Cody's bed into Beckett's and pretending that's healing. I'm not building my entire identity around being someone's girlfriend.
Not again.
Beckett stirs beside me, his eyes opening slowly. When he sees me sitting there, he smiles — small and sleepy and genuine.
"Morning," he murmurs.
"Morning."
He reaches out, his hand finding my hip, pulling me gently back down beside him. I let him, curling into his warmth, but the thought doesn't leave.
We lie there for a few minutes in comfortable silence before he checks his phone and groans.
"Practice in an hour."
"You should go then."
He kisses me and starts gathering his clothes from where they're scattered across my floor. I watch him dress, noticing the way he moves carefully around his injured ribs.
"Are you feeling better?" I ask.
"Yeah." He pulls his shirt over his head. "Never better."
When he's ready to leave, he leans down and kisses me again. "Text me later?"
"Yeah."
No demands. No claims. No expectations beyond what we've already established.
