The truth stung because it wasn’t about blame — it was about being tired. Tired of rearranging my life around someone else’s momentum. Tired of making space for a version of love that always seemed to be waiting for “later.”
I closed the email app, turned my phone facedown, and exhaled. The clock on the stove read 9:18. Early, but the night already felt endless.
I thought about the meeting tomorrow — about Cam, about Beckett, about the mess of work that never seemed to end — and forced myself to believe it was enough.
The foundation mattered. The kids mattered. The gala mattered.
I mattered.
Even if it didn’t always feel like it.
I rinsed my chopsticks, set them in the sink, and turned off the kitchen light. The apartment fell into a soft half-darkness, city glow spilling through the blinds.
Somewhere out there, Kyle was shaking hands with scouts and smiling for cameras. And I was here — holding everything else together.
Because that was what I did.
The morning light filtering through the foundation windows was the dull kind — gray and thin, like it hadn’t had its coffee yet either. My desk was already buried in paperwork, sponsor forms, and a cold cup of coffee I’d reheated twice.
When I pushed the door open, I nearly dropped my folder. Beckett Mason was already there.
He sat backward on one of the folding chairs, elbows braced on the backrest, scrolling through his phone like he owned the place. His hair was damp, his shirt half untucked, and he looked entirely too awake for someone who supposedly hated being here.
He looked up, took one glance at me, and smirked. “You look like hell.”
“Good morning to you too,” I muttered, setting my files down with a thud.
“Late night?” he asked, not looking particularly concerned.
“Early disappointment,” I said before I could stop myself.
He tilted his head, eyebrows lifting. “Ah. The Kyle effect.”
My head snapped up, glare ready. “Excuse me?”
He held up both hands, mock surrender, that infuriating half-smile tugging at his mouth. “Hey, your words, not mine.”
I exhaled slowly through my nose, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. “You really know how to endear yourself to people, don’t you?”
“Endearing’s not my thing,” he said. “Honest, though? You could use more sleep and less… whatever that was.”
I ignored him and reached for my mug, pretending the coffee didn’t taste like burnt regret. “Some of us don’t have the luxury of being perpetually unbothered.”
“Unbothered?” he said, leaning forward on the chair, arms folded along the backrest. “That’s a nice word for emotionally unavailable.”
“Glad you’re self-aware,” I shot back, flipping through a stack of donation receipts.
He laughed softly — not mocking this time, more like he was surprised I’d fired back. “Touché.”
For a second, the office felt less heavy. The usual noise of printers and coffee machines hummed in the background, filling the silence between us.
I could feel his eyes on me, though — that assessing look he had, like he was trying to figure out which part of me was real and which part was just the professional mask.
I didn’t give him the chance. “If you’re here to actually work, there’s a list of tasks on the board. Otherwise, there’s a door.”
He stretched lazily, pocketing his phone. “You’re cranky before nine, huh?”
“Only when I have company.”
