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Escape (Aftermath #2) 4. Chapter 4 31%
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4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Owen

T he clock on the microwave glows 4:58 a.m. , and I question why I am not back in bed. The low hiss of the kettle fills the flat, blending with the soft creak of the floorboards beneath my bare feet.

I rub my eyes and glance toward the front door, holding my breath at the faint hope of hearing her footsteps. She’s been doing this for weeks now—coming in at odd hours, her hair mussed, her laugh a little too forced when she catches me waiting up.

The lock clicks, and the door creaks open. My breath catches as the familiar sound of her boots hits the floor. She steps into view a moment later, her denim jacket slipping off one shoulder, her skirt short enough to make me glance away before I realise I don’t need to.

“Hey,” she says, stopping in the doorway when she spots me. Her voice is light, breezy, but there’s something in the way she shifts her weight, the way her eyes flick toward the clock, that gives her away. “You’re up early.”

“Could say the same about you,” I reply, nodding toward the clock.

She shrugs out of her jacket and tosses it over the back of a chair. “Long night.”

I force a smile, watching as she heads to the sink and grabs a glass from the cupboard.

“Where were you?” I ask, trying to keep my voice light.

She freezes for half a second, her back to me, before she fills the glass with water. “Out,” she says simply.

“Out,” I echo, leaning back against the counter. “That’s helpful.”

She turns then, her lips quirking into a faint smirk as she takes a long sip of water. “Places people go when they’re not sitting in their kitchen at five in the morning.”

Her smirk tugs at something deep in me, that same stupid, familiar pull I’ve never been able to shake. I hate the idea of her out there, with whoever she was with tonight, but I shove the thought aside before it can take hold.

“You’ve been out a lot lately,” I say, keeping my tone as casual as I can.

“So?” she shoots back, setting the glass on the counter with a little more force than necessary.

I raise my hands, palms out. “Just saying.”

Her jaw is tense, and for a moment, there is a flicker in her eyes—defensiveness, maybe, or something sharper. She picks up the glass again, her fingers tightening around it as she takes another sip.

“I’m not judging,” I add quickly, though the knot in my chest is there all the same. “I just—”

“You just what?” she cuts in, her voice rising. “Think I can’t handle myself? Think I need you to babysit me?”

“That’s not it,” I protest. I pause, taking a breath, and try again. “I’m just worried about you, alright?”

She snorts, shaking her head as she grabs her jacket from the chair. “Don’t be. I’m fine.”

I step forward without thinking, the space between us shrinking as I search her face for something—anything—that tells me she means it. But her walls are up, her expression unreadable.

“You’ve been different since—” I start, but she cuts me off.

“Don’t… please.”

For a moment, we just stand there, the tension crackling between us like a live wire. Her eyes meet mine, and there’s something in them, something raw, almost vulnerable, but it’s gone before I can reach it.

“I’m tired,” she says, her voice softer now but no less firm. “I’m going to bed.”

She brushes past me, the faint scent of her shampoo trailing behind her, and I stay rooted to the spot, my fists clenching at my sides.

The door to her room clicks shut, and the flat falls silent again.

I turn back to the kettle, pouring the steaming water into my mug. The tea bag bobs up and down, the colour bleeding out into the water. For a moment, I just stare at it, the burning feeling of all the words we don’t say to each other spreading until it feels like it’s filled the whole room.

She doesn’t see it. She doesn’t see what she’s doing to herself—or to me. But how can I tell her when she doesn't want to hear it?

The smell of pizza fills the flat, mingling with the faint, buttery scent of popcorn. The mattress takes up most of the living room floor, surrounded by a fortress of cushions and blankets. I tweak the lamp one last time, tilting it so the light hits just right. Satisfied, I drop onto the mattress and grab a slice of pizza, taking a bite as I wait.

The key turns in the lock, and I straighten up as the door opens. Mel steps in, shrugging her bag off her shoulder. Her curls are escaping the bun she’s tried to wrangle them into, and there’s a crease in her forehead that makes me wonder how rough her day’s been. She insisted on going back to work, even though both her boss and I told her to take some time off. It’s too soon, but she won’t hear it. Instead, she drags herself home every day looking like she’s been through a battle, with dull eyes and slumped shoulders, completely drained.

When she sees me on the floor she stops mid-step, her eyes darting to the mattress and the rest of the setup.

“What is this?” she asks, her tone sceptical.

“This,” I say, gesturing grandly at the room, “is a peace offering. Movie night! A proper one. Pizza, popcorn, cushions, the works.”

Her eyebrow arches, her eyes narrowing slightly. “You dragged the mattress out?”

“You can’t have a real movie night on the sofa,” I reply, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “That’s amateur-level lounging. This is elite.”

She crosses her arms, pretending to consider. “Pizza smells good. Is it bribe-level good?”

“Only one way to find out,” I say, waving a slice in her direction.

She shakes her head, a small laugh slipping through, but there’s a warmth in her eyes that wasn’t there when she walked in.

“I’ll be back in five,” she says, grabbing her bag and heading down the hall.

When she comes back, she’s swapped her work clothes for joggers and an old sweatshirt that’s a little too big for her. Her hair’s loose now, a soft mess of curls that makes her look more like the Mel I know, the Mel I’ve missed.

She flops onto the mattress, grabs a slice of pizza, and takes a bite without a word.

“Good?” I ask, watching her out of the corner of my eye.

She nods, mouth full, and waves the pizza at me like it’s an official seal of approval.

“So,” she says once she’s swallowed, “what’s the plan?”

“Only the finest cinematic experience,” I say, holding up the remote. “ Dodgeball .”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Wow. You really know how to woo a girl.”

“Who said anything about wooing?” I reply, smirking as I hit play.

She laughs, the sound soft and real, and settles back against the cushions.

The movie is ridiculous, and, as always, we’re both laughing more than we probably should. Mel’s got this habit of pointing out things I’ve never noticed before, like the way Ben Stiller’s moustache twitches just slightly when he delivers certain lines.

“Look at it!” she says, practically wheezing. “It’s like it has its own personality.”

“Maybe it’s method acting,” I suggest, tossing a piece of popcorn at her.

She catches it mid-air and pops it into her mouth with a triumphant grin. “You’re just jealous of his commitment to the role.”

“Obviously,” I deadpan. “I’ve always wanted a villainous moustache.”

“You’d look ridiculous,” she says, throwing a piece of popcorn back at me.

“You mean dashing ,” I correct, dodging the throw with exaggerated flair.

“Sure, let’s go with that,” she replies in a fit of giggles.

The movie rolls on, but the back-and-forth between us barely slows. Every now and then, she leans a little too close, her shoulder brushing mine as she grabs for the popcorn bowl. At one point, her foot nudges against my leg, and neither of us is willing to break the contact.

By the time the credits roll, we’re sprawled out on the mattress, the cushions scattered and the popcorn mostly gone.

“Alright,” she says, stretching her arms over her head, her sweatshirt riding up just slightly. “I’ll give it to you. This was a bloody good idea.”

“High praise,” I reply, mock-bowing from my reclined position.

She laughs, reaching over to flick my forehead lightly. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Oh, too late,” I say, leaning back with a satisfied grin.

She grabs a blanket and tosses it over both of us, the weight of it settling across our legs. For a moment, the room is quiet, the warmth between us almost tangible.

“Thanks, Owen,” she says curling up in my arms.

I glance at her, but she’s staring at the ceiling, her face unreadable.

“Anytime,” I reply, and I mean it to. I would host a thousand pizza parties if it made her laugh as much as this one did.

She shifts slightly, her head resting closer to mine, and I let myself relax into the quiet, the scent of her shampoo lingering faintly in the air.

Maybe this isn’t everything I want, but for tonight, it’s enough.

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