Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
Alec
“So you and your neighbor next door, huh?” Julian asks the second Mara and Mila leave my place.
At least he waited until after breakfast. Small mercies and all that shit.
Ever since his accident, the man’s mouth has been running on whatever impulse fires first. It’s like the doctors removed his spleen and accidentally yanked out his verbal filter with it.
He just releases every thought that exits in his brain at full volume.
Does he ever try to hold any of it back? Absolutely not.
This is a whole “carpe diem” and shit thing he does because he brushed a little too close to death.
“There’s nothing going on with my neighbor and me,” I say, pointing the spatula I’m washing at him like it’s a weapon.
If I don’t shut this down now, he’ll tell Rhodes.
Rhodes will tell Roderick. Roderick will tell Kit or Cleo—probably both.
And suddenly my friends—who have all known me too damn long—will be placing bets on my nonexistent love life like it’s a Super Bowl pool.
I really don’t need that kind of negativity in my life. The gossip mill is something I’d love to avoid for the rest of my life—even if it’s just within my circle of close friends.
Though honestly? I’m not sure anything I say will stop them.
Eddie already calls constantly to “check on the neighbor.” As if she’s my responsibility. As if I volunteered for any of this. Try explaining to him that I’m not doing anything that should be considered involvement, and he acts like I’m denying my entire family.
Yes, I check on the science tutor when he shows up. Only because the man nearly set a beaker on fire the first day, and nobody needs Mila learning about combustion before she learns basic algebra. And do I walk them to the dance academy a couple blocks away? Not always.
Sometimes I don’t.
Okay—more like occasionally.
Fine, whatever.
Picking them up on my way back from my meditation session?
Fine. Yes. I do that.
Did I shift my schedule around Mila’s activities so they’re not walking around the city alone?
I’d rather chew my arm off than answer that question.
Julian raises an eyebrow, reading me like he’s flipping through a cheap magazine at the grocery line. “You’re sure? Absolutely nothing happening there?”
“There’s nothing,” I repeat, aiming for confident and landing miles off the mark—tight, uneven, nowhere near convincing. A tone that is desperately trying to hide the truth I’ll never say aloud: from day one, I’ve wanted to taste that sassy mouth of hers.
I’ve imagined pinning her to the wall, dragging her leggings down just far enough to sink into her tight, wet pussy while she bites my shoulder to keep quiet.
Those are the kind of thoughts that never leave my mouth.
They live in the silence. In the tension. In the pulse between every look we exchange. And they’ll stay there. Buried.
That’s something I’ll take to the grave.
My new resolution is simple: deny, deny, and—is that lying?
Probably.
Should I talk to my therapist? Definitely.
Maybe even go to a meeting and reevaluate my life choices.
I just say, “Nothing even remotely—”
He snorts. “Man, you were staring at her like she personally invented sunlight.”
I choke on air. “I was not.”
“You were,” he says, already helping himself to another piece of pancake. “You get this look when she talks. Your face softens, and I swear I saw little hearts come out of your eyes a time or two.”
“My face doesn’t do that.”
“It absolutely does.”
I glare at him because honestly, what the fuck?
“Listen,” I mutter, pointing at my own face, “this thing has never softened once in its life and never will.”
Julian leans against the counter, crossing his arms, and tilts his head like he’s evaluating a rare species. “It did this morning.” The smugness on his face is infuriating.
“You need a hobby.”
“I have several and just founnd a new one,” he says cheerfully. “Watching you implode.”
I level Julian with a look that should shut him up, but it doesn’t carry the bite I want it to. Irritation coils low in my gut, but something else pushes through, heavier, more volatile—pressing against my ribs like it’s clawing for daylight.
I’ve tried to keep it buried, tried to convince myself I’m too careful, too wrecked, too aware of what happens when I let something in. But the truth is, he’s not wrong—and that’s the part I can’t stand.
It’s that he sees what I haven’t said aloud.
I don’t want to admit what’s happening. Not to him.
Not to myself. Not when Mara is nothing but borrowed time in yoga pants with sunshine trailing behind her.
She’s here to sort through her aunt’s assets and then disappear.
A temporary neighbor with a kid and a dozen plans that don’t include me, and still, something about her makes me feel like I’ve stepped into a life I don’t deserve, but still want.
Every part of it feels unstable. As if looking at it too closely will make the whole thing vanish.
Still, I can’t stop thinking about this morning—her standing in my doorway, hair twisted up like she barely cared, voice softened by sleep, that open look in her eyes hitting me like a low drumbeat in my chest. A moment that could have split something wide open if I’d let it.
The thing about her is that she’s never looked at me as if I’m broken or as if I’m someone famous who she can take advantage of. Nope. In fact, this morning, she looked at me like maybe I could be trusted—even chosen.
And that’s something I can’t afford.
I’m not made for situations like this. Actually, I’ve spent years avoiding them. Moments where someone hands me their trust without hesitation, like I might actually know what to do with it. Their mornings. Their silence. Their grief—even their feelings.
Their breath against my shoulder when the rest of the world gets too loud. I’m not built to carry someone else’s weight when I’m still bracing under my own.
Especially not when it’s wrapped up in a woman who fits into my life so effortlessly, that I forget she was never meant to stay.
Julian leans back, studying me with that maddening calm that only comes from having witnessed every single one of my spectacular failures. “I haven’t seen you like this since—”
“Don’t.” My voice cuts sharper than I mean for it to. “We’re not doing nostalgia hour. Stella was an escort Connor hired, and I was a stupid nineteen-year-old with too much money, fame, and not enough sense.”
Julian lifts his hands in surrender, but his eyes don’t budge. “Fine. Still—something’s different. That woman . . . she might actually be good for you.”
I nearly laugh. It comes out closer to a scoff. “You want a love story? Go get one. I’m not signing up for your Hallmark redemption arc—not that it worked for you either, did it?”
A muscle in his jaw tics. Just once. “I swore off that shit for a reason.” His voice tightens, rough at the edges—like it’s scraping against something he still can’t swallow.
“I thought I loved her. I was wrong. I almost died because of that mistake. You bringing it up every time you’re cornered doesn’t help. ”
My stomach knots. That was low, and we both know it. The short version he offers people is a rewrite. The real one involves betrayal, a fake pregnancy, and a woman who tried to cash out on his life.
“Sorry,” I say. Not just because I should—but because I mean it.
He exhales through a crooked smile. “You’re like a wild animal, man. Always snapping because you’re terrified someone might stick around.”
I turn my face away, jaw clenched. He’s not wrong. That’s what stings the most.
The worst part? Mara’s already closer than she should be—and she hasn’t done anything to wedge herself in. She’s just . . . there. Bright, happy, and impossible to ignore. Easy to open the door to.
I don’t know why.
And that makes me want to shut it faster.
Julian tosses his keys in the air, catching them like this is just any other day. “Anyway, I gotta go. Roderick’s gonna chew me out for being late, and I’m blaming you.”
“Why? Because you can’t mind your own business?”
“Exactly.” He grins. “Try not to combust while I’m gone.”
The door clicks shut behind him, and the apartment collapses into quiet. The silence creeps in slowly, dragging everything I’ve been trying to outrun back to the surface.
Last night comes back in fragments—her tears on my shirt, her breath warming my throat, the way she curled into me like it was instinct. The way I stayed still. The way I didn’t want to move.
I press my palm to my forehead, as if I can push the image out of my skull by force. But it lingers. It always does. Because for a few seconds, she felt safe with me. And worse—I felt safe with her.
Then I remember Mila’s voice—soft and matter-of-fact: You stayed. Like that’s normal for me. Like it means something I don’t want to name.
Maybe that’s the sign I’ve been waiting for.
Maybe it’s time to pull back before I want more.
Before I start craving something I don’t know how to live with.
Because if I fall for her—if I let myself want Mara, really want her—and it breaks me?
I won’t survive it.
Not when I’ve only just learned how to stand again.