Chapter 14
THEO
The house reeks of cheap beer and artificial fog. Red Solo cups litter every surface like a crime scene from a frat party. Theo cuts through the living room and hears a crunch beneath his feet. He glances down—potato chips, pulverized into the tasteful beige throw rug. Fantastic.
In the kitchen, he pours coffee into his World’s Okayest Roommate mug and watches Jesse point at empty cups like a drunk cruise director.
“JP, my beautiful rookie,” Jesse crows, clapping the poor kid on the back like they’ve known each other longer than six weeks. “You take cups. I’ll take chip bags. Divide and conquer.”
JP blinks, betrayed. “You said we were going to work out together.”
“We are,” Jesse says, already halfway out of the room. “This is your cardio today.”
Theo smirks into his coffee. “When you said you’d handle the clean up, this isn’t what I pictured.”
Jesse shrugs, grinning. “It’s called delegation, my guy. Look it up.”
Theo shakes his head, but before he can fire back with something appropriately dry, the doorbell rings.
“I’m elbows deep in Tostitos!” Jesse says, trash bag in hand. “You get that.”
Still in sweatpants and a worn t-shirt, Theo trudges to the door.
When he opens it, he forgets how to breathe.
Mila stands on the porch in black leggings and an oversized sweater, her hair pulled back in a messy bun. Minimal makeup. Glasses sliding down her nose. She looks nothing like the glittering Gatsby dream from the night before.
And somehow, she looks better.
“Hey,” she says, hugging her arms around herself. “I think I left my phone.”
Theo swallows. “Uh, yeah. Sure. Come in.”
She steps inside, and the second she does, the air shifts. Tightens. Not awkward exactly, but aware.
He gestures toward the kitchen. “You want coffee?”
“God, yes.”
A half-full pot already sits on the counter, but he passes it without a glance, flipping on the espresso machine, measuring the grounds, and setting the milk to steam. Something about doing it right for her feels important, even if it’s ridiculous.
When he hands the mug to her, their fingers brush, and Theo pretends it doesn’t feel like static crackling down his spine.
“Fancy,” she murmurs, lips curling around a small smile. “Thank you.”
They sit at the kitchen island while JP vacuums confetti out of the hallway like a defeated intern. The counter is sticky with vague smears of pink and brown, so Theo grabs a rag and starts wiping it down, grateful for something to do with his hands.
Mila sips her coffee and raises an eyebrow. “Jesse runs a tight ship.”
Theo huffs a laugh. “He’s hazing poor JP.”
She giggles softly, and it hits him like a body check to the chest. That laugh—he wants to bottle it. Keep it somewhere quiet. Somewhere safe.
A pause settles between them. The kind that hums with things unsaid. He should speak. He wants to speak.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, his fingers curling around the damp rag. “For leaving last night.”
She looks over at him, eyes steady, curious.
“I don’t do great with crowds,” he continues. “Too many people. I just…needed to get out.”
He doesn’t add, I wanted to be alone with you. Without the noise. Without the audience.
Mila tilts her head, studying him. “You don’t owe me an explanation.”
“Yeah,” he says. “But I wanted to give one.”
Another beat of silence, but it doesn’t feel empty. Just full of things neither of them knows how to say yet.
Mila looks down at her coffee. “I had fun. Before you left.”
“Me too.”
And he means it. Every awkward second he spent beside her had been perfect. The way she laughed. The way she looked at him, like he wasn’t invisible. She’d been funny, brilliant, and so distractingly beautiful he could barely think straight.
But when his words got in the way and he bailed, he needed to find another way to connect with her. Without all the pressure and prying eyes that tied him in knots.
He’s had a crush on her since they'd met at Jesse’s apartment last Christmas. And now she’s here. In his kitchen. In her barefaced, sleepy Sunday morning glory. Damn him if he did not shoot his shot.
“I like this better,” he says.
“What?”
He gestures vaguely. “This. You. Me. Not Sexy Luigi.”
Mila considers this, eyes twinkling. “Sexy Luigi wasn’t so bad.”
Theo swallows the knot in his throat. He wants to say something more about last night. Something clever. Something funny. Anything.
Instead, he pretends to be engrossed in his coffee while Mila blows on hers, her lips pursed slightly.
She glances up at him, casual. Too casual.
“So,” she says, tracing her finger along the rim of her mug, “was everyone accounted for last night?”
Theo blinks. “Accounted for?”
“You know. Players, staff... masked strangers lurking in dark corners.”
He clears his throat. “Uh, I guess? Jesse invited half the city. Hard to say who was actually here.”
She hums thoughtfully, eyes sharpening just a fraction. “Right. Any idea who the man in black was? He was in a suit and a black mask.”
His spine goes rigid, heat creeping up his neck.
“I mean,” she continues, the picture of polite curiosity, “he seemed to know a lot about me. Where I was staying. Who I was there with…”
Theo lifts his mug a beat too late, trying to hide behind the rim. The ceramic sears his palm, but he clings to it like a lifeline.
“Do you think,” she tilts her head, “it could’ve been someone I already know?”
He almost chokes, letting out a noncommittal grunt that he hopes she interprets as maybe and not please stop talking before I spontaneously combust.
Because this—this is torture.
She’s right there, knees tucked under her on his barstool, leaning just close enough for him to catch the summery scent of whatever shampoo she uses, looking at him like she already has the answer and is daring him to say it out loud.
Tell her.
The urge is sudden, hard, almost physical. He wants to. God, he wants to. To admit it was him. That the mask didn’t hide a stranger—it hid every aching, messy, wanting part of him. That those were his hands, his lips, his voice she whispered to in the dark.
But saying it would mean explaining why he bailed. Why he changed into his backup costume—the one he’d planned to wear before his numbskull roommate strong-armed him into being Sexy Luigi, making him so anxious and stupid in a way he can’t bear to unpack.
And then she’d know.
Poor, fucked-up Theo.
So he swallows it down, keeps his eyes on his coffee, pretending he doesn’t feel her gaze like a warm hand on the back of his neck.
Before either of them can speak again, there’s a thunderous thud-thud-thud of someone taking the stairs three at a time.
“Yo,” Jesse calls, appearing in the doorway with a trash bag slung over one shoulder and tortilla dust smeared across his cheek like war paint. “Are we vibing in here or avoiding responsibility?”
He clocks the two of them sitting with their coffees, pauses dramatically, and grins.
“Well, shit,” Jesse says. “My bad.”
Theo rolls his eyes and sips his coffee, grateful for the distraction. Mila lets out a low laugh, the tension softening a little.
“Was just saying hi,” she says, standing and brushing invisible crumbs off her sweater. “I should get going. I’ve got to pack before my flight.”
Theo’s stomach dips.
Right. She’s leaving.
Not just his house. The city.
Jesse gasps theatrically. “You’re abandoning us in our darkest hour? I saved a bag of taquitos for you.”
“Tempting,” Mila says, grabbing her coat off the hook by the door, “but I think I’ll leave the biohazard cleanup to you.”
“Rude,” Jesse mutters, kicking a deflated balloon out of the way.
Theo stands as she moves toward the door, a quiet weight settling in his chest. He tells himself he’ll find a way to tell her. Not now, with Jesse and JP within earshot, but soon.
“Hey,” he says, just as her hand touches the doorknob. “You never looked for your phone.”
She pauses. A flicker of something crosses her face—surprise, maybe. Embarrassment?
Then she turns, cheeks faintly pink. “Right. I, uh…I think I left it in the car after all.”
She gives him a half-smile, almost shy. “But thanks for the coffee.”
And just like that, she’s gone.
The door clicks shut behind her, and Theo stares at it a moment too long.
She didn’t forget her phone. She came here for something else.
Don’t get ahead of yourself, Tilbury.
He picks up his mug and drinks what’s left, now cold.
Jesse sidles up beside him with a fresh trash bag and nudges him with his elbow. “You’re not slick, my guy. She came over for you, not the espresso machine.”
Theo doesn’t answer.
But he lets himself hope—just a little.