With a piece of masking tape that says.
Delilah’s Stuff. Hands off, Ethan.
My heart stutters, then races. A designated drawer. Alabeleddrawer.
The cardinal rule of Delilah Greer's relationship survival guide.
Never leaveanythingat his place. Not a hair tie. Not a bobby pin. Not a forgotten sweater that gives him an excuse to text you later.
I mean, just last year that guy left those slippers at my place and I freaked out. I'd seen them as a claim, an invasion of my carefully protected space. I'd told Lacey it was about maintaining my independence, but really, it was about controlling the inevitable end. You can't be left behind if you never fully arrive.
Yet here's Troy, offering me not just space in his room, but anidentitywithin it. A permanence I've spent years avoiding. And instead of panic, I feel...warm.
“What…” My voice wavers. “What is all this?”
Troy sets the forks down, then leans against the counter, arms crossed casually—but his eyes are locked on mine, careful, like he knows this is a minefield.
“I figured you’d be here more. You always steal my hoodie anyway, so I got you one that actually fits. Thought you might want your own space for stuff. Toothbrush. Hair clips. Whatever. Girl shit. Tampons?”
My throat tightens. He says it like it’s nothing. Like it’s no big deal. But it is. It’severything.
I’m not used to being cared for. Not like this.
“I actually prefer wearing yours. It smells like you,” I admit. He grins easily. “No problem. You can keep wearing it, baby.”
“Troy…”
His brow furrows. “Is it too much?”
I swallow. “It’s?—”
Too much.
Too soon.
Too perfect.
Too terrifying.
“I don’t know what to do with it,” I whisper.
“With what?”
“This.” I gesture—helplessly. “All of it. You. Being… like this.”
He steps closer, slowly, like he’s approaching a spooked animal. His voice lowers.
“Like what?”
“Kind,” I admit, voice thin. “Like Imatter.” My voice cracks.
Troy’s expression softens. His hand finds mine.
“Youdomatter,” he says. “You’ve always mattered. You just need help seeing it.”
And it’s that, more than the food, more than the hoodie, more than the drawer. That undoes me.
Because I’ve always been good at keeping it together. Always held everything up, even when it hurt. But right now, I let myself lean into him. Just a little. Just enough.
