Chapter 40
STANDING EIGHT (LEO)
The door closes behind her with a soft click. My body reads it like impact.
I stay where I am, ring locked in my fist, while the apartment goes wrong around me. The TV is on mute. Late light stripes the floor. Her coffee mug is in the sink.
Nothing has moved.
But the balance is gone.
Her side of the bed is unmade. Her book is on the nightstand, bookmark shoved halfway through chapter three. One of her pens is on the dresser beside the stack of med school notes she kept pretending she wasn’t stressed about.
Last night she was in my arms, hair loose, legs wrapped around me, my name in her mouth.
Now the room looks like she got yanked out of it.
The ring bites into my palm. I’m gripping it hard enough to hurt, but I don’t let go.
Breathing turns technical. Pressure, not pain. My body knows what to do with pressure. Brace. Move. Fix it.
Every instinct I have is already at the door.
Go after her. Catch her before the elevator. Take the bag. Put her back in this apartment. Talk until that look leaves her face.
I stay where I am.
Because if I go after her now, I make her right.
That’s exactly what she was running from.
I keep my feet planted and make my lungs work.
In through the nose.
Hold.
Out.
Again.
Same drill as between rounds. Same violence, different source. Get your feet under you. Slow the breathing. Don’t throw something stupid because your body wants a target.
The bedroom door is still open.
Her side of the closet is open too, because she moved too fast to think about closing anything behind her.
My phone lights up on the island.
For one vicious second, I think she’s changed her mind.
I cross the room, pick it up, and look at the screen.
LIZ
I’m at the Cherokee
She got there. She’s safe.
It should settle something.
Instead the words hit like a wrench under the ribs.
The Cherokee.
Her building. Her locks. Her walls.
Not here.
I stare at the screen too long.
My thumb moves before I can stop it.
LEO
Lock the door when you get upstairs
I delete it.
LEO
Text me if you need
Delete that too.
I set the ring on the island before I crack it in my hand, then type the only word that doesn’t reach for her.
LEO
Okay
The message goes.
That’s all.
No heart. No softness. No opening.
Good.
That’s what she asked for.
My phone stays in my hand. I keep staring at the thread as if another text might appear.
It doesn’t.
A minute later, it buzzes.
NATE
She’s here. Eden’s with her. We’ve got her
I read it twice.
Then another one.
NATE
Don’t be stupid
A harsh laugh catches in my throat and dies there.
I type back.
LEO
Copy
The third message comes almost at once.
NATE
You good?
I look at it.
Don’t answer.
Nothing useful in that answer.
I lock the screen and set it face down on the stone.
The ring is still there beside it.
Small. Bright. Final.
I pick it up again because leaving it there feels worse.
I stand in the kitchen, the ring in one fist and my other hand braced on the island, breathing slow enough to stop the room from tilting.
Then the last few weeks come back ugly and fast.
The car every morning. Not because she asked. Because I decided.
Eden’s convenient dinners. Nate showing up. Lukas offering a ride.
All of it neat. Efficient.
I built a cage and called it care.
She said I was managing her. I hated hearing it. I hate more that she was right.
I never meant ownership. I meant protection. Ease. Fewer sharp edges. Inside her body, it landed as control. Same shape. Different hands.
Christ.
The air in the apartment is still, the low hum of the air conditioner the only sound. A machine calibrated to run smoothly around me. It never occurred to me she might find that suffocating. To me, order is the thing that lets me breathe.
I pick up my phone.
First the car service. Cancel tomorrow’s booking.
Then Nate.
LEO
Give her space
It looks cold. I send it anyway.
A minute later my phone buzzes.
NATE
Okay. She said what she said?
I don’t answer that one either.
Because she did. Because I heard every word.
I plant both hands on the granite and wait for the urge to move to pass.
It’s that or put my fist through something expensive.
The apartment smells faintly of her shampoo and whatever face cream she uses at night. Soap. Paper from her notes. The citrus cleaner the housekeeper uses on the surfaces. Underneath it all, the ghost of dinner from last night.
I have to work my mouth loose before I crack something.
This is what she asked for. Space. Choice. Her own life.
If she asks, I come.
If there’s danger, I move.
Otherwise, I hold the line.
The apartment still smells like her.
I tell myself I can survive that.
I’ve survived worse.
I’m trying to remember what.