TWENTY-FIVE
Levi
“Cece?”
I call out the second I step into my penthouse.
What I wouldn’t give to call it ours.
But Cece isn’t there yet. Maybe she never will be.
When no answer comes, I move farther into the silence, swallowing the living room whole. The kitchen is empty. No dishes. No music. No sign of her.
Somehow, the lack of music sticks to my head like gnawing urgency. Dragging me back briefly to a time when I never entered her space without the sweet hum of calming songs.
But this—this isn’t unusual anymore.
Ever since I asked her to move in temporarily, she’s mostly kept to the bedroom. Existing behind closed doors and half-drawn curtains.
My mind drifts back to a few nights ago when I’d unintentionally pulled her out of our room.
??????
“Shit.” I yank the kitchen towel off of the oven handle, and throw it at the stupid mixture of foam and soapy water draining out of my dishwasher.
I’m muttering even more colorful profanities under my breath when I hear Cece padding over to the kitchen, barefoot.
“Wait,” I nearly yell, holding my palm up to stop her from stepping into the mini-flood in our kitchen.
Fuck. How did this even happen?
I’d only wanted to do the dishes since we let my housekeeper go.
Jasper suggested that we should lock up our ship tighter.
Have no strangers in the house that could be tempted to leak any information to the vultures.
So I’d asked my regular housekeeping agency to pause on sending anyone to my place.
I could manage my apartment by myself, right? I mean I’d done it when I was in California, at Stanford.
Shit, I had a housekeeper then too.
Wait—didn’t I pause the service for two weeks when Cece spent time here for the first time since we started dating? That was over half a year ago. I’d managed then.
Then I realize pretty quickly that it was probably Cece making it seamless for me.
“What happened?” she croaks, rubbing the back of her hand over her eye.
“I-I don’t know,” I grumble, struggling with a massive roll of paper towels now. “I added the soap, set the dishwasher to a heavy cycle, and… fuck!”
“Soap?” She frowns as she steps closer to the mess I’ve made. “What soap? You mean pods?”
This is the first time I’ve heard her talk this long—in full sentences. Doesn’t matter that those sentences are less than three words long. But her voice, though fatigued, is still calming as ever.
Then I register her question and freeze. “I mean this,” I say carefully, grabbing the dish soap from the counter. “Soap.”
Did I do something wrong? Why is she looking at me with a flattened expression that is seconds away from an eye-roll?
“That’s the dish soap,” she deadpans.
I know.
“Levi.” She sighs, shaking her head.
She walks over to the corner where the dishwasher is, carefully avoiding the foam, and picks up a large basket on the counter.
She fishes out the glass jar sitting inside it and holds it up to let me see. “Dishwasher pods.” Then she points to the bottle in my hand that I’m still stupidly holding. “Dish soap.”
More words, baby, please.
She exhales heavily, her lips twitching to a reluctant smile as she studies the sheer incomprehension emanating from me. “Dish soap is for hand-washing dishes. The dishwasher has its own liquid or pods. You have pods.”
My mouth parts, eyes darting between the pods and the leaking mess on my floor. “Got it. Fuck.”
Then I hear the most precious sound–a soft chuckle that dies a little too quickly. But I still heard it.
Hell, I’ll use the damn dish soap again and flood my kitchen ten times over, if it gets her to smile again.
??????
I gulp hard, dread thrumming in my veins as I walk deeper into the apartment. Because I don’t think I’m getting that smile today.
Yesterday was the first time after the mini-flood, that she forced herself out of bed long enough to help me cook lunch.
Yes, forced.
All while finishing half my bottle of whiskey. I think she didn’t want me to accidentally burn down the building. But I’d taken that time with her as a small victory.
Slowly, I push open the bedroom door, expecting to find her curled on her side of the bed. Never crossing that invisible line that somehow formed between us.
Christ, I miss her.
I miss her so fucking much, even though she’s living with me. But the bed is empty right now. And instantly, something cold twists deep in my stomach.
The same question that’s haunted me every day since she moved in slams into my head again.
Did she leave? Is today the day?
My throat tightens painfully around a dry swallow.
Then I see it. A faint movement behind the curtains lining the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Her hazy silhouette.
She’s on the balcony.
Relief crashes into me so hard my knees nearly weaken.
Until a new, rare dread takes its place.
I slide the glass door open, expecting her to glance back at me, flinch, or at least acknowledge me somehow.
She does none of those things. She just stands there. Perfectly, eerily still. Staring down from the terrifying height of this residential skyscraper we’re on.
My heart stops. Actually fucking stops, dropping like these forty-eight floors beneath us might as well not exist.
Because they don’t feel solid enough.
And for one horrifying second, all I can think is how easy it would be for her to just lean forward.
“Cece.” My voice cracks on her name, desperation bleeding through it.
Suddenly, I’m wishing I hadn’t researched Bipolar Disorder to the degree I did. Because eventually, I stumbled upon one of the most harrowing I’d come across about bipolar. The huge percentages were jumping out of my screen, searing into my brain.
But I’d naively hoped that my Cece wouldn’t be part of those decimals. One statement from that study pops up in my head.
‘…the evidence suggesting that individuals with bipolar II use significantly more violent and lethal methods than do individuals with bipolar I.’ [*]
Cece has bipolar II, doesn’t she?
And these forty-eight floors are the difference between ideation and lethal attempt, aren’t they?
She finally looks back, but her hands never loosen their white-knuckled grip on the railing. Her red-rimmed eyes are a devastating mix of blankness and resignation. I don’t want that there.
Hell, I don’t want her here, leaning so limply against the railing. All her weight on it.
“Hey,” she whispers, voice unnaturally steady. “You’re back early.”
I nod, but all my focus is zeroing in on getting her away. I have no idea what’s going on in her head. But I’ve read through enough statistics that the hollowness in her eyes terrifies me.
“Baby,” I say, but my voice splinters entirely when her brows furrow. “Walk back to me. Please.”
Her confusion deepens before her expression flattens when she notices the sheer panic in my voice. “I wasn’t going to jump.”
That monotone. Christ.
My breath shudders, entire chest heaving. “That’s… not what I was thinking but… baby—”
“No, I wasn’t. I really wasn’t,” she insists. Again, in that voice that lacks the Cece I’ve come to love. “There’s a lot of shit to be done. I’m not… thinking like that. Look up passive ideation.”
I already have, and it’s not even close to ridding me of this terror.
I risk a step closer to her, and she shifts enough to face me. Her back toward the railing.
“Okay,” I say, keeping my voice steady despite the dryness of my throat. “Okay, I’ll look it up. But let’s—let’s go inside? I ordered temaki and California rolls. From that place you like.”
Please. Please walk back to me.
“Kingyo?”
I nod.
“What about dinner?” she asks, finally putting a few inches between her back and the dreadful edge of my sanity. I barely let myself breathe a sigh of relief. “Are we still going to my parents’?”
“Yes, baby,” I croak, swallowing hard. “And I have a surprise for you.”
Her lips twitch, but the smile I was desperately yearning for never fully forms.
She simply nods, dragging her feet toward me.
Ask me. Ask me what the surprise is, dammit!
I know this about her. Her softened anxiety that takes over when someone tries to spring a surprise on her. There are moments she can’t handle the anticipation. She needs that ample notice.
But her lack of question is carving a ruthless wound inside my chest.
Where are you?
The moment she’s close enough, I don’t waste a second. My arms immediately wrap around her cold, rigid frame. For a terrifying moment, she stays stiff against me.
Then, slowly, her hands clutch the sides of my shirt lightly.
But she hugs me back.
It’s been days since she’s let me hold her like this. Days since she willingly stepped into my space instead of retreating from it.
Which is why I notice the difference instantly when my hands slide higher up her back.
Her hair.
It’s longer. Not by much. Just enough for the ends to brush against my fingers at the nape of her neck.
But somehow, the change feels massive. Unnervingly significant.
My body knows hers too well. Every inch of her is etched into me—her warmth, the shape of her waist, the way she shifts when she’s tired, the exact texture of her pixie cut beneath my palms.
So this? This unfamiliar length catches me completely off guard. I lean back slightly, studying her blank expression.
“It’s longer,” I murmur.
And it is.
In all the time I’ve known Cece, her hair has never grown past that precise pixie length. Even old pictures from before we dated showed the same meticulous cut.
Intentional.
Maintained.
Her brows pull together faintly, like she’s trying to think through fog. Then she gingerly touches the loose strands near her temple. “Longer.” She blinks slowly. “I… I missed my salon appointment.”
The words hit harder than they should. Because Cece never misses appointments.
Her routines are practically stitched into her. Every detail of her life is carefully structured and polished.
And now, even this has slipped away from her.
It’s such a small thing. But suddenly it feels deafening.
“Let’s rebook it,” I say gently. “Unless you want to grow it out—”