Chapter 12
TWELVE
JESSE
A one-time lapse in judgment.
It was. I knew it was—knew that Finn was right.
But I’d still wanted him to stay.
The city glow sliced through a gap between the curtains and painted a stripe across the ceiling of my bedroom. Quiet. Too damn quiet. I’d showered right after he’d left, tried to wash away the heaviness, the bitter taste at the back of my throat. No luck.
I’d wanted him to fucking stay. To forget about tomorrow and the fact that we couldn’t do this, the same way he’d made me forget there was a world outside.
Something snagged in my mind and I laughed—dry, halfway to a stupid sob, lying on my back under sheets that smelled like him, with just enough self-awareness to realize that I was acting like some movie character on the brink of madness.
“I wouldn’t make you forget your day, Jesse.
” That’s what Finn had said that very first night, a silken promise that could have tipped into cheesy territory but somehow hadn’t.
“I’d make you forget your name and what year it is. ”
Yeah. He’d delivered.
Fuck.
I rolled to my side and fumbled for my phone, squinting against the dim light of the lock screen. Close to one. He’d left, what, an hour ago? Minutes stretching like brittle rubber.
I had his number. I could text him.
But he’d left.
I pulled up Shane’s name instead, typed words without thinking and sent them.
Man, I fucked up.
He might be asleep—better if he was maybe, give me some time to come down, grapple for a few scant hours of rest. Except three little dots appeared, and then:
***
Funny—that just about summed it up. I inhaled, exhaled, and replied.
Finn was at the bar.
Shane’s response was immediate.
Tell me you didn’t.
We did.
Two simple words that felt like a hole in my chest, wind cutting through.
Fuck, Jesse. When I said get laid, I didn’t mean HIM.
I could just picture Shane—eyebrows scrunched in concern and mouth pinched in gentle disapproval, just like how he’d look when catching two of his first-graders fighting.
Best-laid plans?
Not funny.
No, it wasn’t—more like the furthest from funny I’d ever felt.
I stared at the trickle of city lights and thought about Finn, walking home alone with my scent still on his skin, maybe a mark here or there where I’d held on too tight.
And I just… I couldn’t. Couldn’t pretend this hadn’t happened, that it didn’t change things.
Breakfast? 9 at your place?
Make it 10
Bring carbs & an explanation.
I shot back a thumbs-up, then dropped the phone face down on the nightstand. The screen glow died and let the shadows in my room creep closer, walls crowding in. All just in my head.
I pulled the sheets up to my chest and closed my eyes. Years of working night shifts and long days had trained me to grasp at sleep with both hands when I could, something precious not to waste. It would come.
My heart thrummed loud like the beating of a drum.
“Carbs!” I brandished the paper bag like a ritual sacrifice to the gods.
Shane squinted into the soft morning light, then opened the door wider for me. Still in pajamas—red plaid bottoms and a threadbare tee I’d given him because it read Teachers Do It with Class. He looked half-asleep but mostly unimpressed.
“Huh,” he said. “Figured you’d opt for a scarlet letter.”
I took off my shoes and stepped past him into the familiar comfort of his studio apartment, steam already curling from the coffee pot on the kitchen counter. “Thought about it,” I told him. “But then I settled for chocolate croissants.”
He took the bag and peeked inside. “Smells like shame.”
“Dunked them in it.”
He snorted and gave me a once-over—damp T-shirt, flushed cheeks, energy still sparking just beneath my collarbone. “Seems you also dunked yourself in sweat. Jesus, man. You run all the way here?”
“Six miles.” I helped myself to a glass of water and snatched a kitchen towel I could sit on. “Didn’t help.”
“Didn’t help with what, exactly?”
I pulled out a chair, dropped into it, and let my head tip back. “Feeling like an idiot. But also… God. You should’ve seen him.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” Shane padded barefoot across the tiles to grab a couple of mugs from the cupboard. Kids’ drawings were pinned to it—sunflowers and what looked like an octopus with far too many tentacles. “Coffee?”
“Prescription strength, please.”
He poured, plated the croissants, and sat down across from me, bracing his elbows on the table. The domestic warmth of his place made last night’s shadowed rush feel like another dimension of reality.
Finn. Fingers pressing in and eyes open, watching me like I mattered. The way he’d held on to me.
“So,” Shane said—just that, heavy like a statement.
“So,” I agreed.
He tore a bite off his croissant, shiny with butter. “So?”
“You said that.”
“Bears repeating.” A beat of silence. “You really did it. With him. Again.”
I didn’t flinch, but it was a close thing. “Yeah.”
“Jesus, Jesse.” He shook his head like a disappointed parent. “When I suggested you go get laid, I meant like… pressure release. Not ‘pick the most professionally complicated option you can find.’”
“Yeah, well.” I exhaled and focused on my coffee, bitterness wafting up. “Not like I planned it. Just… He was there. We locked eyes. And the rest is history.”
Shane made a noise that landed somewhere between amusement and sympathy. “Just not the kind that I would teach my kids.”
“Best not.” I set my coffee down a little too hard, liquid sloshing. “And I’d like to blame it on blackout adrenaline, temporary insanity, all that. But that’d be a cheap excuse.”
“Not your style,” Shane said, tone much gentler now.
“I’d hope not.”
“So what was it?”
The multimillion-dollar question.
I stared at my hands. “I just… In that moment? It was like the rules didn’t even really matter. Not by comparison. And I’ve never—I mean, I’ve wanted other guys, yeah. Sure. But not like that.”
Shane was quiet for a second, chewing slowly. “Like what?” he asked then, still so very gentle, almost as if I were a shy animal he didn’t want to spook.
“Like… Like we were synced up. Like it was easy, necessary. Instinct.” It sounded ridiculous out loud. I pushed on regardless. “Like he got it. Me. So I took him home. And it was just… God. It was amazing.”
“Amazing,” Shane echoed, head tilting at a slightly disbelieving angle.
“Yeah.” I clasped my coffee, took a sip. “And yes, thank you. I do realize I sound like I’m on some kind of love drug.”
“Are you?”
I glanced up. “On drugs?”
“In love.”
Jesus. I breathed around the sudden spike of electricity in my gut. “I don’t—I mean. I…”
Something twitched around his mouth. “Eloquent and conclusive.”
“Shut up.”
“Just trying to help.”
“I know.” I did, was the thing, and sometimes, that meant hugs and quiet words of reassurance.
Other times, it meant a well-placed kick in the ass—like when he’d split from his long-time girlfriend late last year and I’d eventually needed to drag him back out into a world that extended past teaching classes and binge-watching shows on his couch.
He nodded, smiled. “So?”
No. I couldn’t be. It would be the dumbest thing I’d ever done.
“I don’t think so.” I exhaled. “Like, infatuation, maybe. When he left—after—it felt like a gut punch.”
Shane’s bare foot nudged my socked one in silent comfort. “You asked him to stay?”
“Yeah. He said that if he did, we wouldn’t be able to call it a one-time mistake.” Even now, the memory ached a little behind my ribs—watching him get dressed, how he’d thanked me for a really good time when to me, it had meant so much more.
Shane sipped his coffee for a second, studying me. “He’s probably right. But here’s the real question: Did he want to leave, or did he feel that he had to?”
I scuffed a hand through my sweaty hair and tried to think—not so easy when something inside me was still quivering with how it had felt to touch him. But, fuck. He’d… Well. He’d looked at me like I mattered. Like he wanted me. Like he’d follow me anywhere if I just asked.
And then he’d left.
“I don’t think it’s what he wanted.” My throat went tight. “I think he was protecting himself. Protecting both of us, maybe. Or—probably.”
Shane took a moment to reply. “Sounds as if I’d like him.”
As if I might bring Finn around one day, have him and Shane meet so they could become friends. Impossible. “Yeah,” I said anyway. “I think you would.”
We let a moment of quiet stretch, Shane relaxed in his chair with the coffee mug in his hands, me slowly dissecting my croissant without actually eating it. The city hummed outside the window, sunlight cutting through a gap between neighboring buildings to fall across the tiles.
“You can’t keep supervising him,” Shane said eventually.
“I know.” There was no way I could be objective—I’d be lying to myself and Finn. He’d understand.
“So what’s the plan?” Shane asked.
“I’ll talk to Novak, ask her to transfer his evaluation to Tay—first-year fellow, nice guy. It’d be a development opportunity for him, too.” The coffee tasted bitter on my tongue. Just right. “I can still give advice or whatever, but I can’t be his supervisor anymore.”
“You got a reason ready for why it shouldn’t be you? Because they’ll ask.”
They would, yeah. Especially Tay, who seemed like the perceptive type.
“Blackout-induced Stockholm syndrome,” I said. “Or, you know. Some version of that.”
“Right—held hostage by aging New York infrastructure and a dying ventilator.” Shane paused for a smile. “Seriously, though? That’s the right call.”
I rubbed the back of my neck. “Even if it looks like I can’t handle the responsibility?”
“It’s not about optics—it’s about ethics. You’re doing the right thing, and sometimes, that’s hard.”
“Honestly, I’m more…” I shook my head and fell silent for a beat. “It can’t happen again. I know that. But God, I—if he were anyone else, if we didn’t work together…”
“You’d want to date him,” Shane finished quietly.