He didn’t erase me.
He carried it with him.
All of it.
Just like I did.
“Shit,” I whisper, dragging a hand down my face.
That changes things.
Or maybe it makes them worse.
I don’t even know anymore.
I force myself to move, climbing the steps onto the porch.
The wood creaks under my weight, solid and real beneath my feet.
There’s a key under the mat.
Of course, there is.
Because Benji is nothing if not predictable when it comes to practical things.
My fingers tremble just a little as I pick it up.
“This is insane,” I murmur to myself.
I unlock the door and step inside.
The air is cooler in here, shaded from the lingering heat outside. It smells like sawdust and fresh paint and something faintly familiar beneath it all—like him.
I close the door behind me and just stand there.
Taking it in.
The open floor plan.
The wide space.
The light.
It’s not furnished fully yet.
A couch.
A table.
A few pieces here and there.
Enough to live in but not finished.
Like he stopped just short.
Like something kept him from making it complete.
My chest tightens again.
