Chapter 25
twenty-five
. . .
Stella
“Stay here,” I whisper.
Brandon nods, running both hands through his hair as he tries to catch his breath. He looks as stunned as I feel, his chest still rising and falling rapidly.
Another knock, more insistent this time.
“Coming, Mama!” I call out, doing a quick check in the hallway mirror. My hair is a disaster, and my lips are swollen, but there's nothing I can do about that now.
When I open the door, my mother is standing there, fully dressed, with her suitcase beside her, looking impeccable as always despite the early hour.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” she says, taking in my rumpled appearance with obvious amusement. “I hope I'm not interrupting anything important.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “Of course not. What's going on? Is everything okay?”
“Everything's perfect. I just wanted to say goodbye before my flight.” She glances past me toward the bedroom hallway. “I decided to catch an earlier one. I have a committee meeting this afternoon that I'd hate to miss.”
“I can drive you to the airport,” I offer automatically, though the thought of leaving right now feels impossible.
“Oh, no, darling. There's already a car waiting downstairs.” She pulls me into a hug and whispers in my ear, “I didn't want to interrupt you lovebirds any more than necessary. You two looked so cozy last night.”
If she only knew how cozy we'd been about thirty seconds ago.
“I had such a wonderful time,” she continues. “Brandon is absolutely perfect for you, and seeing you two together just confirms what I already knew. You're meant for each other.”
“Mama—”
“I'll call you when I land,” she says and then kisses my cheek. “Give Brandon my love. And Stella? Don't overthink things. Sometimes, the best relationships are the ones that surprise you.”
The way she says that, coupled with a knowing look, makes me wonder if she knows we were faking this whole relationship all along.
Before I can respond, she's heading to the elevator with her suitcase, leaving me standing in the doorway, trying to process what just happened.
I close the door, lean against it, and take a shaky breath.
The apartment is quiet except for the sound of movement from the bedroom.
A few moments later, Brandon emerges wearing basketball shorts and a gray t-shirt, his hair still messed up from my fingers, looking unfairly attractive despite, or maybe because of, how rumpled he is.
The sight of him makes my stomach flip as everything from the past half hour comes rushing back. The way he felt against me, the sounds he made, how right it felt until reality crashed in.
“She's gone?” he asks, his voice carefully neutral.
“Yeah. Caught an early flight.” I fidget with the hem of his t-shirt, suddenly hyperaware that I'm still wearing it. “So, I guess that means I can move back into my place now. We can officially break up.”
I try to make it sound light, joking, but it comes out flat and awkward instead.
“Right,” Brandon says, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Back to normal.”
“Back to normal,” I echo, though nothing about this feels normal.
The silence stretches between us, filled with everything we're not saying. About what just happened. About how it felt. About what it means that we can barely look at each other now.
“I should probably get my things together.” I gesture vaguely toward my stuff scattered around his apartment.
“Sure. Yeah. No rush.”
But there is a rush because standing here looking freshly almost-fucked while he looks everywhere except at me is torture.
I need space to think, to figure out what the hell just happened between us and why I feel despair deep in my bones when I think about going back to my empty apartment across the hall.
I start gathering my belongings: clothes I'd snuck into his dresser over the past few days, my toiletries, which had claimed a spot on his bathroom counter, and the work files I'd spread across his coffee table like I lived here.
Each item I pack feels heavier than it should, like I'm dismantling something that was starting to feel permanent, even though it's only been less than a week.
The toothbrush beside his, my sweater draped over his chair, the coffee mug I used every morning—all things that created an illusion of us that's hard to let go of.
Brandon helps wordlessly, handing me things and making space in the bag I'm using to carry everything back across the hall. Back to my own apartment, where everything will be exactly as I left it. Separate. The way it's supposed to be.
“I'll just…” I pause at his door, my bag heavy in my hands. “I'll catch up with you later.”
Later. The word sits between us like a question neither of us knows how to answer. Later today? Later this week? Later, when we've both figured out how to pretend this never happened?
“Yeah,” he says, opening the door for me. “Later.”
I cross the hallway to my own apartment, and my key shakes slightly as I unlock the door. Inside, everything looks exactly the same as when I left it a week ago, but somehow, it feels different. Smaller. Emptier.
I drop my bag by the door and sink onto my couch, trying to make sense of what just happened. One week ago, we were just friends. Good friends who helped each other out and watched trashy TV on Thursday nights with our favorite takeout.
Now I have no idea what we are.