I end the call.
Not angry.
Just… done.
My phone lights up immediately with a text.
JAX:
This is a bad idea. Call me when you calm down.
I turn the phone face down.
I sling the duffel over my shoulder.
The weight of it pulls hard, like it’s trying to drag me back. I adjust the strap and step into the hall, moving slowly now, every footfall echoing louder than it should.
The penthouse feels too big. Too empty.
I make it halfway down the hall before I stop.
Her studio door.
There’s a thin line of light glowing beneath it. Warm. Alive. A shadow moves across it—slow, restless.
She’s in there.
Maybe pacing. Maybe crying. Maybe working through something she’ll never say out loud.
My chest tightens.
My hand lifts before I consciously decide to move it. Fingers hovering inches from the door. Close enough that I could knock. Close enough that this could all change.
I picture her opening it.
Her face tired. Guarded. Hurt.
Please don’t make this harder.
Maybe it’s better if you go.
You’re only supposed to be here for a few months.
She didn’t actually say that.
Fear edits anyway.
My knuckles ache with the effort of holding still.
If I knock, I’ll stay. If I stay, I’ll hope. If I hope, I’ll break.
I lower my hand.
The door stays closed.
I turn away before I can change my mind.
The elevator waits at the end of the hall, quiet and patient. I step inside and face forward.
