Link nods as he kisses his teeth. “Want to tell me why?”
I shake my head under the blanket.
“Okay. Then we’ll just sit.”
We sit in silence while the morning inches closer. Light starts to slip through the narrow gap in the blackout curtain, turning the air gold one stripe at a time. The ache behind my sternum starts to buzz again, quieter than before but persistent, like something reminding me it hasn’t gone anywhere.
Linkin doesn’t rush me; he never does. That’s what makes him one of the safest men in my life, not because he knows how to fix things, but because he never tries to. He lets the mess exist as it is, and doesn’t smooth the edges or talk me toward comfort. He just stays, steady and unflinching; he trusts me to find my own footing again.
“I don’t need details,” he says eventually. “But I know something happened last night, we heard it.”
My throat tightens, then eases just as quickly. Something inside me shifts subtly, like a mechanism clicking back into place.
It’s that familiar internal recalibration—the moment when I remember exactly who I am and stop negotiating with the parts of myself that want to spiral. I draw in a slow breath, measured and deliberate, and let it out just as carefully, like I’m pulling every scattered piece of myself back into alignment.
Linkin hears it in the way my breath evens out, and feels the way the tremble leaves my shoulders. He tilts his head, like he’s watching someone stitch themselves back together in real time.
“That’s what I figured,” he murmurs.
I shift beneath the blankets and push myself upright until I’m sitting cross-legged in the beanbag. The throw slides off my shoulders, and the cooler morning air brushes my throat. I tuck a few loose strands of hair behind my ear, wipe beneath my eyes more out of habit than necessity, and let out a quiet breath.
“I’m fine,” I say.
And I am, just not in the shiny, unscarred way people expect. I’m tired, worn thin, and I’m still buzzing from the emotional whiplash of last night. I’m fine, I’m not breakable.
I sit beside Linkin, wrapped in blankets and warmth and the faint smell of his vanilla candles, letting the quiet hold me while my brain replays everything from last night in sharp, unwelcome flashes.
The way he hovered at the edge of the room, like he couldn’t tell whether stepping closer would help or set something off.
Lucian’s voice and how controlled and unaffected he sounded, like our time together meant nothing.
It still stings.
“I can already tell Orion’s scheming,” I say eventually, staring down at my hands. “Of course, he thinks Lucian being here is some kind of… healing exercise. Like forcing two damaged people into the same space counts as therapy.”
Linkin snorts softly, rolling his eyes. As he shifts, he knocks a pillow off the beanbag. “That’s your brother for you. Zero emotional intelligence, and somehow infinite confidence. Unlike me. I haveallthe emotional intelligenceandconfidence. I’m obviously the perfect catch.”
A reluctant smile tugs at my mouth as I ignore his last comment. “So what am I supposed to do?”
He shrugs, long limbs rearranging themselves with careless grace. “That depends. What doyouwant to do?”
I close my eyes for a second. “Right now, I just want to survive the day.”
He nods, like that answer holds enough weight.
“Are you upset because you still love him?”
The question lands softly, but it still steals my breath. My lungs stutter before I regain control. I keep my gaze fixed on a loose loop of yarn in the blanket, afraid that if I look up, something I’m not ready for will spill out.
“I um…I don’t know,” I whisper. “Not yet.”
“I’m not trying to poke the wound,” Linkin says gently. “I’m just trying to understand how deep it goes.”
“It doesn’t matter how deep it goes.”
A sad look crosses his face as he stares at me. “‘Leste, you don’t mean that. Of course it matters.”
I draw in a breath that tastes like frustration, fear, and something bitterly resolved. “It doesn’t,” I repeat, steadier now. “Because whatever’s still in there, whether it’s love, anger, unfinished feelings, it doesn’t change anything. He made his choice. He treated me like I was disposable.”
