21. Esperr #2
I sink to the floor in the middle of the mess I made, and all I can think about is the way my body keeps shifting from being tense to relaxing when Zyran enters my brain. It’s like my body doesn’t need time, logic, or proof of who he is. It just skips all of that.
I’ve never been that kind of person.
Except with him.
There’s this pull; it’s the only way I can explain it.
And it’s not logical or something I can point to and say this is why. It’s just a deep feeling, like something in me recognizes something in him before my brain has the chance to argue with it.
It’s like my soul is speaking before I can shut it up.
And I hate that I know where it leads, and it’s nowhere good.
It leads to attachment, to letting someone close enough to see things they shouldn’t, to thinking, even if it’s just for a second, that maybe just maybe this time will be different.
But it never is.
My throat tightens slightly as I let out a slow breath. Last night shouldn’t have happened the way it did. I shouldn’t have let him that close, let alone touch me. Definitely shouldn’t have fallen asleep with my head against his chest like it was the safest place in the world.
But I did, and that’s the problem.
Because for those few hours, I wasn’t thinking about consequences or control or distance. I wasn’t calculating anything.
I just let it happen.
I let myself feel safe.
And that’s where people make mistakes—where I make mistakes.
Caring has never done anything for me except hurt me; trust has never ended in anything but regret. Every time I’ve let someone in, every time I’ve believed that maybe they wouldn’t break it, it’s ended the same way.
Pain and loss.
Something taken from me that I can’t ever get back.
And sitting here now, in the middle of a room I just tore apart because I couldn’t breathe right, I can already see it happening again if I’m not careful.
I can see myself slipping, talking to him too easily, letting things out I shouldn’t say. Letting him see pieces of me that are supposed to stay buried.
And that part scares me. Not him.
It’s me.
Because if I don’t shut this down now, if I don’t get control of it before it goes any further, I already know exactly how this ends.
And I’m not going through it again.
A sound slices through the silence, and I flinch, my head snapping toward the counter. Climbing to my feet, I step over the couch cushions and grab my phone, glancing at the screen.
“Hi, Oliver.”
There’s a pause on the other line, long enough that it makes my chest tighten. I open my mouth to say something else when he finally speaks.
“Well, that’s new,” he chuckles. “No attitude?”
I lean my hip against the counter, my eyes drifting back to the mess in the living room, cringing now that I’m getting a good look.
“Give it a second,” I mutter, smiling despite myself. “What do you want?”
“I’ve been digging,” Oliver sighs, his voice shifting slightly, more focused and cutting right to the point. “And I can’t find a single thing about this guy.”
My grip tightens on the counter, my finger cracking against the pressure. “What do you mean you can’t find anything?”
“I mean, there’s nothing. No record, no history, no online presence. It’s like he doesn’t exist, Esperr.”
My gaze flickers toward the door again, confirming that it’s locked.
“Maybe you’re just getting rusty,” I say, but it comes out meaner than I mean to.
The one thing about Oliver is that he knows me better than anyone and knows that even on my toughest day, I say things or come across meaner than I intend.
“Yeah, that’s probably it,” he says dryly. “Or you’re dealing with someone who knows how to stay off the grid.”
“I’m not dealing with anyone,” I say too quickly.
And we both know I’m full of shit.
“You sure about that?”
I don’t answer, mostly because I don’t know how to. There’s this pull in my chest that’s still there, quiet and steady, and I loathe that it doesn’t feel like danger the way everything else does.
Pushing off the counter, I start moving again, pacing slowly past the edge of the couch, my eyes catching on the mess I made. It’s like my freaking life—a mess. And when I would normally feel that itchy sensation all over my body, I don’t. Not when Zyran’s on my mind.
“I’m fine,” I grunt.
“You always say that,” Oliver mumbles. I don’t have to see him to know that he’s rolling his eyes.
I huff out a quiet breath and push off the counter, stepping into the hallway. “I’m serious, Ollie. I’m good.”
“Yeah,” he says after a second, his voice softening. “You always say that too.”
I smile. “Just say what you need to say.”
Oliver exhales slowly through the phone. “I don’t like this,” he finally admits. “You don’t know anything about him, and now I can’t find anything either. That’s not normal.”
I stop in the doorway of my bedroom, my fingers brushing lightly against the frame as I look inside.
My bed is halfway off the metal frame, the pillows thrown halfway across the room.
Even though I tore it apart, the image of his arm around me, my face pressed into his chest, flashes through my head.
To the steady rise and fall of his breathing.
My stomach flips and twists until the butterflies turn to moths and nearly cause me to fly into a coughing fit.
“I’ve dealt with worse,” I finally muttered.
“I know love,” Oliver sighs. “You eat yet?”
I step into the room, barely muttering a no.
“You should.”
“I will.”
“You said that yesterday.”
“And I’ll say it again tomorrow and the next day,” I mutter.
Stepping over to the mattress, I tuck my phone between my shoulder and head, shoving it back onto the bedframe.
“You’re really a pain in the ass.”
I grunt, losing my balance a little. “You still love me.”
“Unfortunately.”
A rather large breath escapes me, something that almost feels like a laugh, but also moving this mattress is taking a lot more effort than I like. Once it’s basically back in order, I shove the covers away from the closet door and pull it open. It’s dark and quiet.
“In other news, I saw that y’all are going to get hit with some snow. Supposed to get bad real quick.”
I slide down to my knees, crawling into the small space. Oliver’s still talking, something about the storm, about staying inside, about keeping my phone charged, but his voice starts to fade into the background as my focus narrows.
The closet smells like cedar and something old—wood and dust. I know this smell—it’s something I’m used to.
Pulling my knees up to my chest, I press my back into the wall and let my eyes drift close for a second.
I was six the first time I did this.
Not this closet, but a different one, a little bigger, shoved full of winter coats that scratched my face if I leaned too far left.
It was the times when the house would get too loud, and it had nothing to do with volume and everything to do with pressure, the way a room can feel like it’s contracting around you.
I remember pulling the closet door shut behind me and just finally being able to take a full breath. It worked then, and it’s working now.