“Promise.”
They exchange looks that clearly communicate they’re making no such promise, but Noah nods. “Fine. No direct interference.”
“Thank you.”
“But if he happens to hear about this idea through completely unrelated channels…” Adam grins. “Well, that’s just a coincidence.”
“You’re terrible.”
“We’re helpful,” Lex corrects. “There’s a difference.”
We spend the next hour eating too much Chinese food and brainstorming increasingly ridiculous plans to get Pierce and me back together without me having to work with my brother. By the time they leave, my sides hurt from laughing and my apartment smells like sesame oil instead of paint fumes.
“Clean up that bathroom disaster,” Noah calls from the door.
After they’re gone, I look around my paint-splattered bathroom and realize they’re right about one thing: I was having a breakdown. The evidence is literally dripping from my ceiling.
But for the first time in weeks, the crushing weight on my chest feels a little lighter. Maybe there is hope. I believe Pierce is just as miserable as I am.
But maybe, just maybe, our love will find a way.
I pick up my paintbrush and get back to work, this time with something that might actually be hope instead of a desperate distraction.
30
PIERCE
I pacethe length of my living room for the hundredth time today, my footsteps muffled by the charcoal rug that suddenly feels like it’s sucking the life out of everything it touches. The monochrome perfection that once brought me peace now feels like a prison, all blacks, whites, and grays that mirror the emptiness inside me.
What’s the point of any of this without color? Without Thatcher’s color and chaotic energy filling the spaces between my ordered life?
The past month has been hell. Every day at work is an exercise in torture, watching him maintain the distance we agreed on, seeing his bright smile reserved for everyone but me. We speak only about schedules and reports. Our conversations are clipped and efficient and completely devoid of the warmth that once made every interaction feel electric.
I want to tell him he can move in here, quit his job, and let me take care of him while he pursues his art. I have enough money that neither of us would ever need to work again. But I know Thatcher well enough by now tounderstand that offering financial support would feel like charity to him, would wound his pride in ways that might never heal.
So I wait. And pace. And slowly lose my mind in this colorless apartment that feels more like a tomb with each passing day.
The doorbell rings, and my heart leaps. Maybe it’s Thatcher. Maybe he’s decided he can’t stand the distance any more than I can. Maybe we can steal a few moments, a few kisses, before reality intrudes again.
I practically run to the door, yanking it open with more enthusiasm than I’ve felt in weeks.
It’s Lior.
The disappointment hits me like a physical blow, and whatever composure I’ve been maintaining for the past month crumbles completely. My shoulders shake as tears I’ve been holding back for weeks finally break free.
“Pierce,” Lior says softly, concern evident in his voice. “Jesus, what’s happened to you?”
I can’t speak, can’t form words around the grief lodged in my throat. Lior steps inside, closing the door behind him, and guides me to the couch like I’m something fragile that might break entirely.
“We need to find a solution,” he says once I’ve gotten myself somewhat under control. “I can’t watch you destroy yourself like this.”
“I deserve this,” I manage, my voice rough and broken. “It’s the universe paying me back for all the bad things I’ve done. For how I treated you, for the years I wasted being selfish and cruel.”
“Pierce, no.” Lior’s voice is firm. “You’re a good man. You’ve more than made up for past mistakes. You deserve happiness, not this self-imposed suffering.”
“Do I?” The question comes out smaller than intended. “Sometimes I think this is just who I am. The man who destroys everything good in his life.”
“Is that really what you think? Because the Pierce I know. The man who turned on his family to help VSE grow beyond anything I imagined, who looks at Thatcher like he hung the stars? That man deserves love.”
