Chapter 4
T he autumn wind bites through my thin jacket as I hurry across campus.
Three hours of back-to-back lectures have left my brain feeling like overcooked pasta, and all I want is to get home, crawl under my blankets, and maybe—if I'm feeling ambitious—crack open one of the five textbooks currently weighing down my backpack.
I check my phone as I walk. A message from my friend from Rhapsody, Orchid.
How’s class coming along?
I'm typing a response when I see him.
Theo.
Standing at the corner ahead, hands in his pockets, watching me.
My heart stops. Then restarts at triple speed.
It can't be him. Ian said he was "taken care of." That he should be on his merry way on the other side of the country. Ian wouldn't lie to me, would he? Not about this.
But that silhouette. That stance. The way he's just... waiting.
My fingers go numb. My phone slips through them like it's coated in oil, clattering to the sidewalk with a sound that makes me flinch.
"Shit," I mutter, bending to scoop it up with trembling hands. The screen isn't cracked—small mercies—but my heart is hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat.
When I look up again, the man is turning away, walking in the opposite direction. He's taller than Theo. Broader in the shoulders. His hair is different too—longer, curlier.
Not Theo. Just some random guy who triggered my paranoia.
I press my palm against my chest, willing my heartbeat to slow the fuck down. It doesn't listen. The adrenaline rush leaves me light-headed, my skin prickling with cold sweat.
"Get it together," I whisper to myself, shoving my phone into my pocket and pulling my jacket tighter around me. "He's gone. Ian took care of it."
I start walking again, faster now, hyper-aware of every shadow, every footstep, every car that passes too slowly. My apartment is only six blocks away, but it suddenly feels like miles.
A car horn blares behind me, and I nearly jump out of my skin. Just someone being an asshole in traffic. Normal city noise. Nothing to do with me.
But what if Theo is still out there? What if Theo is just waiting for the right moment to?—
Stop it.
I force myself to breathe. In through my nose, out through my mouth. Slow and steady, the way my therapist taught me when the panic attacks were at their worst after Mom died.
This isn't then. I'm not that scared, helpless girl anymore.
I lean against a lamppost, my eyes scanning the street, the sidewalk, the faces of everyone who passes. Looking for threats. Looking for him.
But Theo isn't here.
The chill in the air finally pushes me to move. My legs feel heavy, like they belong to someone else, but I force myself to walk. One block. Then another. I keep my head down, arms wrapped tight around myself, every shadow stretching too long, every footstep behind me making my pulse race.
By the time I reach my building, my fingers are numb and my jaw aches from clenching it. But I’m home. The locks click into place behind me, and only then do I let out a shaky breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
I strip off my coat, kick off my shoes, and change quickly before I head straight for the couch.
It’s not much, but it’s mine. My little nest of mismatched blankets and scattered textbooks waits for me like a half-built fortress.
I crawl in and surround myself with the only things I can control—notes, flashcards, highlighters—and try to lose myself in studying.
If I’m focused, I don’t have to feel.
The knock at my door is sharp, insistent. Three raps, then silence. Not the hesitant pattern of a neighbor or the cheerful cadence of a delivery driver. This is someone who expects to be let in.
I ignore it, burrowing deeper into my nest of blankets and textbooks. The apartment is too quiet without the bass thrum of Rhapsody's music, too still without the neon glow of the stage lights. I've spent too many nights in my own head lately, and the silence is deafening.
The knock comes again, louder this time. Followed by a voice that sends a jolt through my body.
"Claire. Open the door."
Ian.
I sit up abruptly, my heart hammering against my ribs. He's never been here before. Never crossed the threshold from my work life to my real one. The two have always been separate, compartmentalized, the walls between them necessary for survival.
Another knock, sharper this time. "Claire."
I swing my legs out of bed, wincing as my feet hit the cold floor. The apartment is a mess—textbooks everywhere, clothes strewn across every surface, dishes piled in the sink. Not the kind of place you invite someone in. Especially not someone like Ian.
But he's already seen me at my most vulnerable. Already touched parts of me no one else has. What's a little mess compared to that?
I pad to the door, my bare feet silent on the worn carpet. I pause with my hand on the knob, suddenly aware of how little I'm wearing. Just a thin tank top and shorts, my hair a tangled mess from days without proper washing.
Too late to hide now.
I open the door.
Ian stands there, filling the doorway with his presence. He's in dark jeans and a black t-shirt that stretches across his chest, a leather jacket draped over one arm. His eyes scan me quickly, taking in my disheveled state, before settling on my face.
"You haven't been to work," he says.
I shrug, trying for nonchalance I don't feel. "Needed a break."
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "You haven't been back since the night in my office."
The night we slept together. The night I ran from him afterward, terrified of what I felt. Of what he made me feel.
I don't answer. Just step back, opening the door wider in silent invitation. He hesitates for a moment, then steps inside, his large frame making the apartment seem even smaller.
He looks around, taking in the space with a single glance. The peeling wallpaper, the secondhand furniture, the textbooks stacked precariously on every available surface. His eyes linger on the framed photo of my mother and me, taken years ago when life was simpler and hope came easier.
"You live here?" The question isn't judgmental. Just... surprised.
"For now." I cross my arms over my chest, suddenly self-conscious. "It's cheap. Close to campus."
Ian's gaze returns to me, softening slightly. "Are you hungry?” He holds up a grocery bag I didn't notice before. "I brought food."
The scent hits me then—something warm and savory and delicious. My stomach growls traitorously, reminding me that I haven't eaten since... I can't remember. Yesterday? The day before?
Ian moves past me into the tiny kitchen, setting the bag on the counter. He pulls out containers with practiced ease, opening cabinets until he finds plates, silverware, glasses. He moves like he belongs here, like he's done this a thousand times before.
I watch him, confused and touched and something else I can't name. No one has ever... taken care of me like this. Not since my mother got sick. Not since I learned that the world doesn't reward vulnerability.
"You didn't have to do this," I say, my voice sounding small in the quiet apartment.
Ian turns to look at me, his expression unreadable. "Yes, I did."
The certainty in his voice sends a shiver down my spine. I wrap my arms tighter around myself, suddenly aware of how exposed I feel. Not just physically, but emotionally. Like he can see all the parts of me I keep hidden.
He pulls out a chair, gesturing for me to sit. "Eat."
I do, because arguing seems pointless. The food is some kind of pasta dish, rich with tomatoes and herbs and something meaty I can't identify. It's delicious, the kind of meal you'd get at a nice restaurant, not something delivered in plastic containers.
Ian watches me as I eat, his eyes tracking my every movement. It should make me uncomfortable, that scrutiny, but it doesn't. Instead, it makes me feel... seen. In a way I haven't in a long time.
"You're not going to ask why I haven't been back?" I say finally, breaking the silence.
"No." He leans back in his chair, his large frame making the cheap furniture seem even more flimsy. "You needed time. I get that."
I set down my fork, my appetite suddenly gone. "Just like that?"
"Just like that." He holds my gaze, steady and unblinking. "You're not the first person to need space after... what happened between us."
The reminder sends heat flooding my cheeks. I look away, focusing on a point over his shoulder. "It shouldn't have happened."
"Why not?" The question is soft, almost gentle. "Because I work at the club? Because you dance there?"
"Because it complicates things." I stand abruptly, needing to move, to do something with the restless energy coursing through me. "Because I have goals. Plans. Things I can't afford to mess up."
Ian watches me pace, his expression unchanging. "And you think being with me would mess that up?"
"I think getting involved with anyone would." I stop, facing him. "Letting someone in… caring about someone would ruin my focus."
The admission hangs in the air between us, raw and vulnerable. I've never said it out loud before. Never acknowledged how much easier it is to keep people at arm's length. To let them see only what I want them to see.
Ian stands slowly, crossing the distance between us in a few strides. He stops in front of me, close but not touching, his presence overwhelming in the best possible way.
"You think you're the only one with walls?" His voice is a low rumble, vibrating through me. "The only one who's learned that letting people in is dangerous?"
I look up at him, meeting his gaze. "I think we're having two different conversations."
"Maybe." He reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering against my skin. "Or maybe we're having the same one."
The touch sends sparks through me, igniting a fire I thought I'd extinguished. I should step back. Should put space between us before this goes somewhere I'm not ready for.