I opened the door. Stepped into the hallway. Closed it behind me.
The click of the latch and then nothing. Just the silence of Langford Hall at four in the morning. Portraits of dead rich men on the walls. Crown molding. The faint smell of floor polish and old money.
I stood there for a second. Fists clenched. Jaw locked.
Walk.
I took the stairs too fast. Nearly missed the last step. Front door. The quad. Grey dawn. Mist on everything.
I got in my car and slammed the door hard enough to rock the frame.
The engine caught on the second try. Heater blowing cold.
I drove.
And the anger came. Not the slow build—the instant kind. The kind that filled my chest like lighter fluid and just needed a spark.
Please go.
He'd saidplease.Like I was a guest who'd overstayed. Like I hadn't driven across town to scrape him off a couch. Like I hadn't held his wrist an hour ago when he was grabbing at me because I knew—Iknew—he'd hate himself in the morning if I let it happen.
And I was right. He hated himself. And then he turned that hate on me.
Maybe this was a mistake.
"Fuck you," I said. Out loud. To nobody. The windshield fogging from my breath. "Fuck you, Alex."
I said it again and again, my voice going hoarse.
I hit the steering wheel. Once. Twice. The horn blared the second time and I jerked my hand back. The sound dying into the fog.
My knuckles ached. Good. Something I could feel that wasn't this.
I wanted to go back. Kick the door open. Get in his face the way I'd gotten in Braden's.You don't get to do this. You don't get to pull me in and then throw me out. You don't get to be honest at midnight and a coward by dawn.
The bridge. I was on the bridge. Didn't remember deciding to drive here.
I pulled over. Killed the engine.
Sat there. Hands on the wheel. Breathing too fast.
The anger was right there. Hot and ready. Telling me to go back. To fight. To make him feel it the way I was feeling it.
And that's when it scared me.
Because I knew this feeling. I knew what it did to me. Knew where it went when I let it drive.
Marcus at the party—my fist connecting with his jaw before my brain caught up.
Braden in the parking lot—hands on his jacket, slamming him into metal.
Every time I let the anger decide, I lost something.
And right now the anger was sayinggo back, make him hear you, don't let him shut the door.
But going back was how I'd gotten here. Going after Braden when Alex told me not to. Swinging when I should have stayed still. Doingsomethingbecause sitting with the fear felt like dying.
I pressed my forehead against the steering wheel.
