Hallpass

Chapter 52

She was still tucked against me when the noise pierced through our sleepy afternoon.

A knock.

No — pounding.

Rhythmic. Angry.

I blinked, still a little groggy, breath still slow from the weight of her body across mine, her face buried under my chin, her thigh slung over my hip like she’d decided I was home and that was the end of it.

I didn’t move.

Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was a neighbor. Maybe it was—

The knocks came louder.

Juniper muttered something under her breath, pressing her face further into my neck.

My hand curved over the back of her head, protective by instinct. “Shh, it’s nothing. Just ignore it.”

But the pounding came again. Followed by a voice. “Ansel. Open the goddamn door.”

Fuck. I knew that voice. It was raw with fury, sharp with betrayal. Kellogg.

Juniper blinked up at me. Her lashes fluttered, mouth still swollen from kissing. “Who…?”

“Stay here,” I said, voice low. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll be right back, kid.”

I eased out from beneath her as gently as I could, heart pounding for a completely different reason now. My shirt clung to her skin, rumpled and soft, and I wanted nothing more than to crawl right back into that bed and never leave it.

But I pulled on a pair of sweats and padded barefoot to the door.

Kellogg was already halfway through another round of knocking when I opened it.

He didn’t wait.

He shoved past me, rage coming off him in waves, his eyes wild and incredulous as they swept across the space — the messy kitchen, the dish with two forks in the sink, the sweatshirt on the back of a chair.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

“Kellogg—”

“You think I wouldn’t find out? You get arrested, Ansel. Arrested. For beating the shit out of some guy inside a coffee shop, and then disappear off the goddamn grid? This is what you’ve been doing?”

I shut the bedroom door behind him before Juniper could hear more — but it was too late. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see her sitting up in bed, fingers gripping the sheets. I could feel her panic like it was stitched into my skin. “I’m handling it.”

“Oh, you’re handling it? Is that what this is?

” Kellogg gestured wildly, voice rising.

“Because I just spent the last six hours fielding calls from legal, from the network, from press — because guess what, your face is still recognizable under all that blood. And now I find out you’re shacked up with her—”

“Don’t,” I said, sharper than I meant to. “Don’t bring her into this.”

He froze. “Christ,” he muttered, staring at me like I’d grown another head. “You’re actually serious about her.”

I said nothing.

“I thought this was some rebound. A spiral. Marianne assured me you weren’t a flight risk. That this stupid relationship wasn’t even real. But you’re — what, in love with her?”

“I told her that days ago,” I said flatly. “So if you plan to keep yelling, you can do it somewhere else.”

Kellogg stared at me for a long time. His chest rose and fell. Then — softer now, almost pitying — “You’re going to ruin everything, you know?”

My jaw tightened.

“This stupid fucking film?” he said, almost laughing. “I only cast you so we could draw the pathetic crowd of women who used to fawn over you in your best years. You weren’t even my third choice. You were a gimmick. A warm body with a tragic backstory.”

He shook his head, disdain curling in his mouth. “And now you’re in love with your press nightmare? The woman I wanted to pay to disappear? Your stupid publicist assured me that she was better press than anything she could come up with.”

I felt it like a blow to the chest. Instant. Hollowing.

“I should’ve dropped you after the first meeting,” he added. “You were a mess then. But Marianne begged me to give you a chance. Said you needed this. Said you wanted to be good again.”

I stepped forward, voice quiet but shaking. “You done?”

He blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I said — are you done?” My fists were clenched.

My throat burned. “Because whatever game you were playing — whatever part of this was about reviving your name or controlling mine — it ends here. If you’re gonna fire me, do it.

But don’t stand in my house, talking about her like she’s a mistake I made. ”

A beat.

He looked like he wanted to argue. But he just scoffed, stepping back toward the door.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” he muttered. “You had a shot. A real one. You could’ve rebuilt something.”

I opened the door for him. “I…” I pulled my hand through my hair, shaking my head. “There was nothing to rebuild, Kellogg. Instead… I’m building something. It just has nothing to do with you, or this movie, or Hollywood.”

He stepped out.

But then — he stopped. Spun on his heel. Eyes dark.

“You’re just lucky your part in this little fucking indie film is practically finished, Barlowe,” he snapped. “We’ll wrap without you. I’ll rewrite the whole damn thing if it means I don’t have to see your face again.”

And then he left, storming off as he muttered expletives under his breath.

And when I turned around, she was standing there — wrapped in the comforter, eyes wide, mouth open slightly, heart written across her face like she’d been listening the whole time.

She stood there for a beat.

Blanket clutched around her. Mouth parted like she wanted to say something — anything — but couldn’t quite find it. The silence stretched.

I didn’t move.

My hands were still clenched. My jaw ached from the way I’d locked it. Every inch of me still felt braced for something — a punch, a shove, the door slamming behind him — and none of it came. Just her. Just her eyes, wide and stunned and watching me like I might come apart.

She cleared her throat. “Well. That was... a lot.”

I nodded once.

“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”

“S’fine.”

She hesitated again. “You okay?”

The words hit harder than I expected. I wasn’t sure anyone had asked me that — really asked — in a long time.

I looked away. Let out a breath. “Yeah. Just… embarrassed, I guess.”

“Why?”

“Wish you hadn’t heard that, mostly.” I gave a small, humorless laugh. “Kinda hard to look at you, this wonderful, perfect woman, and know that the role that brought me back to you… the director says you weren’t even his third choice.”

“Jesus, Ansel.”

“He said it, not me.”

She crossed to me then — slowly, barefoot and blanket-wrapped and wide-eyed — and reached out like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to touch me.

“I don’t care about your résumé,” she said. “I care that you’re here. That you’re you.”

I glanced down at her. “Maybe he’s right about you, too. Maybe this whole thing started with a mistake.”

Her face twitched. Hurt flickered. But I kept going — voice soft, not bitter.

“More accurately… maybe the mistake was me. Letting you walk away from me in that musty convention hall half a year ago was the mistake. Maybe I should have fought for you the moment I laid my eyes on you. My favorite drunken mess.”

She blinked fast. Her hands curled around my wrists.

“You didn’t have to say anything back there,” she said. “You could’ve let him talk. Let him believe whatever he wanted. And instead…”

“God… You heard that?”

“I heard all of it,” she whispered.

I took a breath, finally. Let my hands drop to her waist. Let my forehead fall to hers. She didn’t try to make it lighter this time. Didn’t deflect. She just stood there, close, quiet, her fingers curling into the front of my shirt like she’d never wanted to let go.

And for the first time that morning — maybe all year — I let myself feel it. The ache. The fury. The slow, bone-deep terror that I had nothing left to prove — and still, somehow, nothing to show for it.

Her fingers tightened in my shirt. Not pulling me closer. Just holding on. Like maybe she needed a second, too.

I wrapped my arms around her — slow, careful — and buried my face in her hair. She didn’t speak. Didn’t flinch.

She just leaned into me, and I cracked.

Not loud. Not all at once. But enough that my breath caught in my throat. Enough that my arms pulled her tighter. Enough that my eyes stung and my shoulders shook and I felt… tired. Deep-down tired. The kind that sleep didn’t fix.

She rubbed slow circles between my shoulder blades.

“I’m sorry,” I muttered.

“Don’t,” she said instantly. “Don’t apologize for that.”

I nodded against her. “I just — he said—”

“I know.”

“I thought I could take it. I’ve taken worse. But he said it like it was nothing. Like I’ve never meant a fucking thing.”

“Oh, honey.” Her hands were in my hair. “You do.” The words were so soft I almost missed them. But they landed right where I’d needed them. I squeezed her tighter.

“You do,” she said again, stronger this time. “You mean so much, Ansel. You mean so many things to so many people. To me..”

I let out a slow breath, shaking, and turned my head just enough to press my mouth to her temple. She tipped her face up to look at me. Her eyes were glassy. Her bottom lip trembled.

“Are you crying?” I asked, voice hoarse.

She let out a wet laugh and nodded. “I’m happy,” she said. “I didn’t think I’d ever get this. Not again. Not someone who… stays. Who stands up for me. Twice in one day is kind of a record…” She brushed a tear from her cheek.

“I’m not going anywhere, Junie.”

“I know.” Her voice was soft, almost too quiet for me to hear. A secret that the universe didn’t get to claim — not yet.

My heart raced harder as I kissed her. Slow and soft and certain. No hurry. No heat. Just something to keep. Something just for us. I knew what she was handing me; I could feel the depth of this little truth she was trusting me with.

And when I pulled back, she looked up at me like I hung the stars — like she couldn’t believe I was real — and it felt like something cracked open in my chest.

I let her go just long enough to reach for her hand, then tugged her back toward the bed.

The sheets were still rumpled. The sun was slanting through the curtains.

My chest ached. She climbed in after me, quiet, still wrapped in the comforter.

And when she curled into my side, I tucked her against me like I’d never let her go again.

She stayed pressed to my chest, breath warm against my skin. One leg tangled over mine. The blanket pooled at our waists.

For a while, all I could do was breathe her in.

And then, in this tiny voice — so small I almost missed it — she whispered, “Sometimes I feel like I’ve loved you since the second you looked at me.”

It hit me like a sucker punch.

She didn’t mean to say it. I knew that the second the words slipped out of her — quiet, barely-there. But I felt it, fuck, I felt it.

Like the wind knocked out of me. Like something holy.

But then her body went stiff.

And she pulled back.

Her eyes flew open like she could shove the words back down just by blinking. “Shit,” she whispered, already sitting up. “Shit — no, I didn’t mean — I wasn’t trying to say that.”

I sat up too, slower. “Hey—”

“No, I mean it,” she said, tripping over the words. Her hands were shaking. “That wasn’t — I didn’t mean that. I’m tired, I didn’t sleep well, I was just talking — I wasn’t—”

“It’s okay,” I said. Too fast. Too calm. “You don’t have to explain.”

“I do,” she insisted, knuckles going white where she held the edge of the blanket to her chest. “You looked like — fuck, I didn’t mean to mess this up.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did.”

My throat felt raw. I couldn’t look at her, not directly. “You just panicked. I get it.”

“I wasn’t trying to say it,” she whispered again.

“I know.” I swallowed hard, cupping her cheek in my hand. “It’s been an emotional day.”

That made her go still. Like she wasn’t sure whether to run or cry or both.

“I told you I’d wait,” I added quietly. “I meant that. You don’t owe me the words just because I’m having the day I deserve.”

She looked at me then. And for a second — just one — it almost cracked again. Like she was about to say something. Anything. Instead, “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

That one hit harder than I thought it would.

I looked away. Nodded like it didn’t matter. “Okay.”

Silence. Thick and cold.

I stood, suddenly needing air that wasn’t full of the echo of her voice, of everything she didn’t mean to say. I gathered the shirt off the floor, tugged it on without meeting her eyes.

Behind me, I heard the bed creak as she curled into herself again. “You want something to eat?” I asked, voice hoarse.

“No,” she said. Soft. Small. “I — I just want you to come back.”

That stopped me in my tracks.

I turned.

She was curled under the blanket again, barely a shape in the sheets. But her eyes were wide, and wrecked, and shining.

And even if she couldn’t say it — even if she wished she hadn’t come close — she meant that part. She wanted me close.

I crossed the room without another word, slipped under the covers and let her crawl into me like gravity. Her cheek pressed to my chest.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she whispered.

“I know,” I said. “It’s okay.”

She was quiet for a long time. Then, barely audible, “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

My throat closed. I brushed my fingers through her hair. “You didn’t.”

A lie.

But she sighed like she believed it. And I held her tighter, as if I could keep the words in her from running wild again. As if that would make it hurt any less.

She didn’t owe me the words. I wouldn’t love her any less as long as she stayed right here.

But fuck, I’d really like to hear them.