CHAPTER NINETEEN
GRANT
I feel myself tense when I find Lina jogging down the path beside the lake, her breath shallow, eyes distant—just as I suspected. The same way she’s looked every time I’ve found her running on campus, since she doesn’t know how to rest.
Because she can’t, and I know she can’t. I’ve seen firsthand where it lands her. It’s exactly why I’m out here. I can’t bear for that to happen again.
I tried to keep my distance, but it’s hard to ignore someone when you’ve seen the way they look when they’re not sleeping all that much. Like they’re drifting, slowly slipping away, and you can’t stop it.
It makes me angry, truthfully. Because I know how many times I’ve offered her an out. I’ve been to her apartment every night for the past week and a half. Every night she tells me she’s considering my offer, but she never really does.
Yet, something about the way she’s moving, like she doesn’t care that the night air is biting at her skin, makes me think that this is a reflex for her. In the same way that keeping her safe is one for me. I can’t let it go.
It’s nearing winter. She can’t keep this up much longer.
Running after her, my pace is steady, matching hers.
She doesn’t see me coming until I’m a few steps away, but the moment her eyes meet mine, she stumbles, as though she’s been caught doing something she shouldn’t be.
But this isn’t something wrong. At least it wouldn’t be if she was doing it with the proper precautions—if she fucking slept.
She’s just tired—too tired. I can see it in the way her shoulders sag.
She slows down, breathing ragged, face flushed. “Grant,” she says, her voice thin, like she’s not sure she wanted to acknowledge me at all.
“You’re running again,” I say, pulling up beside her. “I figured as much.”
She gives me a quick, sharp glance. “I’m fine,” she snaps, trying to brush it off. “I needed to get out, okay?”
“Lina,” I say, my voice firm, knowing damn well she isn’t fine. “You need sleep, not more of this. You’re not going to fix anything by running until you pass out from exhaustion.”
“I’m not doing this with you, Grant. I can take care of myself.” She scoffs, shaking her head as she picks up the pace again.
“You can’t even sleep,” I point out, pushing ahead to fall in line beside her. “If you were really fine, you wouldn’t be out here at three a.m., running like your life depends on it. Whatever you’re running from, it’s not going to get fixed by avoidance.”
She doesn’t answer. Her lips press tightly together instead, and for a second, I think she’s going to try to ditch me. But then she falters, slowing down again before her voice comes out barely above a whisper. “You wouldn’t understand.”
I stop walking then, turning to face her while keeping my eyes locked on hers. “Try me,” I say, gentler. “Maybe I will.”
Her chest rises and falls in uneven breaths, her exhaustion evident now that she’s not trying to hide it. “I don’t need your help,” she mutters, looking away.
“So you’ve said before.” I take a step closer, my hand brushing the sleeve of her jacket. “Doesn’t matter if you want it or not. You’re not okay, Lina. I can see it.”
She bites her lip, her shoulders stiff. “You don’t get it.”
Maybe she’s right; maybe I don’t get it. But I’ll be damned if I don’t at least try.
I take a deep breath, feeling my patience running thin but forcing it to hold.
“What I get is that you’re pushing yourself, hoping it’ll make you feel something other than exhausted and broken.
I get that because I’ve been there.” I’ve been so riddled with grief before that I no longer knew how to function the way I used to.
Her eyes flicker between mine, full of hesitation, trying to decide if I’m full of shit or if there’s something genuine behind what I’m saying.
“Fine,” she finally says. “So what, you think I should just go back to bed and pretend everything’s fine?”
“No pretending. You need rest, Lina. Let me help. You said you would consider my help.”
“What’s in it for you?” she asks, half-joking, half-challenging. “You just going to play the big hero?”
There’s a flash of amusement in her eyes, but underneath it, I see the real question. The one that has been hanging over us both since the first time we met: What the hell do I want from this?
“Maybe I just want some damn peace of mind. Maybe I’m tired of seeing you destroy yourself out here, pretending you’re fine.” Maybe this is more for me than it is for her.
I don’t tell her the truth, mostly because I know how irrational it sounds.
I’d sound crazy if I came out and told her that every time I think about her running in the middle of the night, I can’t help but wonder whether she’s considering drugs.
A lot of people looking for a solution to a problem like Lina’s would probably turn to something stronger than an early morning run—it’s a lot easier.
And I don’t think I’d ever forgive myself if that happened to her. If she went down that path all because she’s exhausted and wants to get to sleep on her own.
So, yeah, this has something to do with her, but it also has everything to do with my own guilt.
Her brows cinch, clearly trying to make sense of my words. I can’t help it; I’m getting too close to her. Too much of her is pulling me in. But I’m not about to let her run herself into the ground.
“I’m serious, Lina,” I press. “Come back to mine. We don’t even have to go to the apartment. We can go to the house and get some sleep. You’ll feel better.”
She hesitates, her eyes narrowing slightly, still skeptical. “And what? You’re going to let me crash on your bed, no questions asked?”
“No questions,” I reply. “Just sleep.”
After a beat of scrutiny, she lets out a tortured breath. “Fine,” she relents before pointing a stern finger at me. “But I swear to God, if you try to make it weird?—”
“Not my style,” I promise. “Just sleep.”
“It’ll be easier to go to our apartment building from here.”
Her pace is slow because of how exhausted she is. It makes it easy for me to follow her. “Whatever you want. I have the same mattress and everything at the apartment, so it’s practically the same.”
We walk back to our apartment building in silence, and when we get inside, I lead her past her unit and into mine. She follows me all the way into my bedroom.
“You slept pretty damn good the last time you lay in my bed. That’s the point here.”
I need her to rest. For her own damn good and for my peace of mind. She gives me a sideways look, but I’m not in the mood to play games.
Lina is not my mom. Lina is not my mom. I have to keep repeating it like some kind of wacky mantra.
I open the bottom drawer of my nightstand, assuming she won’t want to sleep in her leggings and running jacket. I grab a random tank top and pair of shorts and hold them out to her. “Here. These will fit you.”
When I look back at her, her entire face is downturned in a cringe.
“You’re seriously handing me some random girl you’ve fucked’s clothes?
” She shivers at the idea, still holding the pajamas an arm’s length away.
“On second thought, maybe I shouldn’t lie in your bed .
I don’t want to be sleeping in the scent of some random girl all night. ”
“ Jesus . You’re so dramatic.”
“It’s disgusting!” she quickly defends.
“A. You’ve already slept in my bed. B?—”
She interjects quickly, “I was drunk! That doesn’t count.” So she’s said a million times.
“B,” I repeat, eyeing her, “I wash my sheets. A lot. I don’t want to be sleeping with the scent of some girl anymore than you do.
And C. Those are my sister’s clothes you’re holding, and even if the girls I’ve slept with somehow managed to leave the house completely naked, I still wouldn’t keep their clothes. ”
“Fine,” Lina mutters, rubbing her forehead. “You’re still a dirtball.”
After a moment, she goes to turn back toward the bed, but she quickly whips around to face me and says, “And don’t think I’m just gonna fall asleep because you said so,” with a stern finger pointed at me.
“Good. Don’t fall asleep because I told you to. Fall asleep because you need it.”
“You really think I can just turn it off? Like, ‘Oh, okay, Grant, I’m gonna magically pass out now’ ? That’s not how it works.” She releases a short, tired laugh, but it’s more out of frustration than amusement.
I don’t take her defensive attitude personally. I know it’s because she’s tired.
“I know,” I say quietly. “But you’ve gotta at least try, alright?”
It’s the only thing I’m asking her to do: try.
Her eyes flicker over to me, and for the first time all night, she looks… vulnerable. Not the hard shell she usually wears, but something softer. The kind of look that makes it clear how much she’s fighting just to keep it together.
“I don’t think I can, Grant,” she whispers. “I don’t know how to make it stop.”
I stay quiet for a moment, giving her space. The way her chest moves quickly up and down with her every breath is enough to show that sleep isn’t just elusive—it’s a battle she’s been losing, night after night.
She’s told me enough about it. How it’s been like this since her mom’s funeral, and how she feels the need to run from her thoughts. I also have a good feeling her ex-boyfriend has something to do with how she acts about this.
“Calm down,” I say, trying to keep my voice as soft as I can manage. “You’re okay. Just go put some pajamas on and get yourself ready for bed.”
I need her to trust me enough to relax in my presence, and I know better than to push her right now.
The last thing she needs is more pressure.
But I have the inevitable feeling that she’s spiraling further every time she tries to force herself into some kind of normalcy without giving her body the rest it needs.
From what her roommates have told me, that’s all she seems to be trying to achieve: normalcy . But it doesn’t seem to be working out for her.
She nods, retreating to the bathroom for a long couple of minutes, and when she returns, she looks no more relaxed than she did when I found her on that running path.
“Lie down,” I tell her, pulling the comforter of my bed back. I’m doing everything in my power to make this as compelling as possible, but I still have no idea if it’s going to work or not.
Reluctantly, she eases beneath the covers as if they’re going to bite her. She lies stiffly on her back, eyes trained on the ceiling.
I linger near the foot of the bed for a minute, watching her pretend to settle, and then I move to sit on the edge of it.
It gives me flashbacks to how I spent most of my nights growing up.
Sitting on my sisters’ beds because they were both extremely anxious.
Helping them get to sleep was my number one priority before I ever made it to my own bedroom for the night.
“My sisters were both older than me and terrifyingly convincing, so they could persuade me to do pretty much anything they asked,” I murmur, not really planning to say it until it’s already out there.
I’m somewhat hoping that telling her small details about myself will help her to trust me.
“They were both bad sleepers. Abby used to have nightmares, and Claire—she was always anxious about school and stuff. Couldn’t shut her brain off.
So, I’d sit on the edge of their beds and scratch their backs until they passed out. ”
Lina doesn’t say anything, but her eyes flick toward me, that same guarded look still on her face. I wait for the snark, the pushback. But it doesn’t come.
Instead, she slowly turns onto her side so that her back is now facing me. She pulls the blanket up around her shoulders and says so quietly I almost miss it, “ Will you? ”
I know it’s likely her desperation for something to actually get her to sleep driving her to ask, but it still knocks something loose in my chest—that permission, the tiny ounce of trust.
Shifting, I rest my hand lightly between her shoulder blades, fingers brushing gently across the fabric of her tank top. Light, slow. No pressure, just movement.
She doesn’t react at first, and I wonder if it’s too much.
If I’ve crossed some invisible line we never talked about.
But then I feel it—a breath, deeper than the others, and then another.
Her body, little by little, starts to release its tension.
Her shoulder drops, and her fingers uncoil where they’d been gripping the blanket.
Meanwhile, I try to keep my own breathing steady. Trying not to think too hard about the way her hair smells like eucalyptus and the way her skin emanates warmth from beneath my fingertips.
This was supposed to be about helping her sleep. That’s all. But something about her being here, in my bed, trusting me enough to let her guard down—it messes with my head more than I’d like to admit.
She’s not just some friend. She’s not some lost cause I’m trying to save.
She’s Lina .
And I don’t know what the hell to do with the way that makes me feel.
“Thanks,” she whispers after a few minutes, her voice thick with sleep, slurring around the edges.
I keep tracing slow circles across her back. “Night, pretty girl.”
She’s asleep five minutes later.
And I stay right there, sitting beside her in the dark, my hand resting against her spine like maybe I can protect her from whatever’s chasing her—even if I can’t protect myself from the unwarranted feelings that sneak in, quiet and stubborn, refusing to leave.