Vesper’s gaze drops to the pillow between us like it suddenly matters more than my face.
“So we all ...”Her voice is thin.“That night.”
“Yes.”
And then she does what Vesper always does when something hurts—she turns it into a blade she can hold.
“It wasn’t crazed teenage sex,” she says, almost angry.“We loved each other.And you two treated it like it was ...a mistake.”
My chest clenches.
“I was fine the next morning,” I admit, and it tastes bitter.“At least, I acted like it.”
Vesper lets out a breath that isn’t a sigh, not really.“You were so casual.Like it meant nothing.”
Because if I let it mean something, then I had to admit how deep it went.I had to admit I wasn’t playing around anymore.I had to admit I wanted more than I’d ever been allowed to want.
“I thought if I made it light,” I say, “it would be less scary.For you.For him.For me.”
She swallows.“And Monty?”
My jaw tightens, not at her—at the name.Because it still does things to me.Because he’s still in the next room and I can practically feel him through the wall like an old bruise you forget you have until you press it.
“Monty woke up mad at the world,” I say.“Mad at himself.Mad at me.Maybe a little at you.”I shake my head slowly.“Like he’d been pulled into something he didn’t agree to ...”
Vesper’s voice is barely audible.“But he did.”
“I know,” I say.“He did.He wanted it.”My throat feels raw.“And he hated himself for wanting it.”
She nods once, eyes glossy.“He wouldn’t look at me at first.”
“I remember,” I whisper.“I remember him putting his clothes on like armor.I remember him acting like the room was on fire.”
Her voice turns soft, broken.“And you ...you kept smiling.”
I wince.“Yeah.”
Because my smile is what I use when I’m terrified.It’s what I use when I feel too much and I don’t know where to put it.
“And then,” Vesper says, and it’s not anger—just pain, “you both decided I had to choose.”
The wordchoosehangs between us like a threat.
I close my eyes for a second because I can still see it—her face crumpling, her hands over her mouth like she was trying to keep herself from making a sound, her voice cracking when she said it was impossible.
“You cried,” I say, barely above a whisper.
Her exhale shakes.“Yeah.”A pause.Then the truth, stripped bare, “Because you two were my entire world.My everything.I measured life by summers.When would I see you again until ...I didn’t.”
My throat burns.
I reach out slowly, giving her time to pull away, and rest my fingertips on the pillow between us—right on the border she built, like I’m asking permission.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and the words are too small for what I mean.“I’m so fucking sorry.”
Her eyes meet mine again, wet and stubborn.“I don’t want to be the reason you hate each other.”
“You’re not,” I say immediately.“You never were.”
