As if I can fucking breathe when she’s near me.
She steals the oxygen from the room without trying and my lungs don’t expand right when she’s around. My blood doesn’t circulate like normal. It’s hotter, thicker.
The apartment is quiet when I come home shortly after nine in the evening. I’m not usually back before midnight, but today, I wrapped everything up in record time, then broke several speed limits getting here.
Looks like I shouldn’t have bothered.
Every evening, Leilani’s been waiting for me on the couch, either reading, or watching TV while folding my clothes.
Tonight is the first night she isn’t around to greet me.
The living room is dark, empty, and it sends an unpleasant shiver down my spine. The pizza box balancing on my palm feels ridiculous. I glance at the red logo, calling myself a fucking idiot.
What was I thinking?
That she’d come running at the smell of pepperoni? That she’d forgive me for rejecting her just because I brought food? That she’d want to spend the evening with me after I didn’t kiss her then teased her about it?
That was low.
I fucking panicked, alright?
I stand in the hallway longer than I should, deciding how to proceed. If she wanted to talk, wanted to see me, she’d be here, right? The fact she’s locked in her room is a clear message:stay away.
Like hell.
She’s all I’ve thought about today while running errands, checking another buttload of information from Blaze, and bruising my knuckles on the face of a cocky informant. The guy picked the wrong day to play games with me.
I kick off my boots, crack my neck, and shake out my shoulders. My jaw aches from how hard I’m grinding it. I head down the hall, eyes on the sliver of light beneath Leilani’s bedroom door. My pulse is doing acrobatics as I raise my hand, exhale sharply, and rap my sore knuckles against the wood.
One, two, three seconds pass.
My palms start sweating.
Four, five—
“Come in.”
Oh thank fuck.
I push the door open, peeking in, and thatthank fuckmorphs into a simplefuck.She’s on the bed, knees pulled to her chest, arms wrapped around them, eyes red-rimmed and swollen.
“You’ve been crying.”
I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I’ll never push you away again. I swear.
“A little,” she admits, wiping tear tracks off her cheeks. Then, like she’s desperate to change the subject, her gaze flicks to the pizza box. “What do you have there?”
I clear my throat, holding it out. “Peace offering.”
I’m starting to notice a pattern...
She quirks an eyebrow, the faintest twitch of humor slipping through as she tilts her head to the side. “We’re not arguing.”
“You’re not mad at me?”
“Should I be?”
She’s not crying because of me?
