Chapter Eight
I wake up and immediately regret it.
Because he's there.
Not physically, obviously, but there all the same. He's lodged somewhere between my ribs and the space behind my sternum like someone installed an unwanted emotional surround sound system overnight and forgot to ask for my permission first.
I freeze with my eyes still closed, breathing shallowly, as if staying perfectly still might somehow make it less real.
"No," I whisper into the quiet.
And then it hits.
A wave rolling low and heavy through me, sharp around the edges in a way that makes my whole body tense before I can stop it. Regret. Frustration. Something that feels suspiciously like controlled panic trying very, very hard to stay controlled.
My eyes snap open.
"Ew."
I sit up so abruptly the blankets tangle around my legs.
"Absolutely not. This is actually the worst thing that has ever happened to me."
The feeling does not go away, because of course it doesn't. It settles deeper instead, like it belongs there, like it has every right to exist inside my body and lounge around without even helping me pay rent.
I press my hand to my chest.
"Get out," I mutter.
It does not get out.
Instead, there is another flicker. Him. Awake. Aware. Focused.
On me.
"Oh my God," I groan, flopping backward onto the bed and throwing an arm over my face. "Stop feeling at me with your emotions. I don't want them."
The bond hums on, steady and unbothered and completely unresponsive to my very valid complaints.
"This is harassment," I inform the ceiling.
There is no response.
Rude.
I drag myself out of bed a few minutes later through nothing but stubbornness and habit, padding toward the kitchen in a sleep shirt and pure resentment, because coffee comes first, always, and if I am going to be emotionally haunted before eight in the morning, I would at least like to be caffeinated while it happens.
I lean against the counter while the coffee brews, eyes half lidded, trying very hard to ignore the constant low level awareness of him humming in the background of my body.
It's like background music.
If the background music were emotionally invasive and deeply annoying.
Another flicker brushes through me, all sharp focus and intent, and I can feel it before I even fully register what it is.
"Stop," I say out loud.
I point accusingly at my own chest.
"You had your chance to consider me. You do not get to do it now."
The coffee machine beeps, and I nearly cry with gratitude.
Finally.
Something good.
I grab my mug like it is a lifeline, take a sip, and close my eyes for one glorious half second of peace before the despondent feeling slides back in again, low and persistent and impossible to ignore.
I open one eye.
"I don't care," I say.
I take another sip.
"I do not care, Julian."
Another sip.
"Your feelings are not my responsibility."
The bond hums on, unmoved by logic, boundaries, or common decency.
I glare at the wall.
"Rude."
By noon, I have decided two things. First, ignoring him is apparently a full time job. Second, I deserve a treat for doing it so well.
So I bake.
Because baking is control, and baking is measurable, and baking does not involve unwanted emotional connections unless someone is very dramatically overreacting to a cookie, which I never do because I am a model of stability.
I start pulling ingredients out of cabinets with unnecessary determination, setting flour and sugar and butter and chocolate chips across the counter like I am preparing for battle instead of dessert.
"Today," I announce to absolutely no one, "we are making something indulgent."
It feels important to say it out loud.
Flour. Sugar. Butter. Chocolate chips. Healing.
I mix everything together with more aggression than the recipe technically requires, because if I am going to feel his stupid feelings in my stupid chest, then I am at least going to have cookies about it.
Then another flicker moves through me, softer this time, quiet regret, careful in a way I do not appreciate even a little.
He is thinking again.
About me.
Specifically.
I pause mid stir and narrow my eyes at absolutely nothing.
"Stop it."
I point the spoon at my chest like I am issuing an official warning.
"You are not invited to this baking experience."
The feeling lingers anyway, careful and measured, like he is trying not to push.
I scoff.
"Too late for that."
Then I go back to mixing, even more aggressively than before, because if I cannot have peace, then I can at least have aggressively therapeutic dough.
Forty minutes later, I am sitting on my couch with a plate of warm cookies, a blanket over my legs, and absolutely zero emotional availability.
Perfect.
The TV is on, something loud and mindless enough to keep part of my brain occupied, and I take one bite of a still warm cookie before closing my eyes and sighing.
"Okay," I whisper. "That's incredible."
Small joys.
We focus on small joys.
I take another bite, reach for my notebook, and flip it open to lesson planning, because chaos should always be channeled productively if possible. My pen taps once against the page as I stare down at tomorrow's math block.
Then a grin spreads across my face, slow and inevitable.
"Oh no."
I sit up straighter, already feeling the idea take hold before I've even fully formed it.
"Operation: Math Mayhem."
Of course.
Why simply teach math when I could turn it into a fully produced, unnecessarily dramatic game show experience?
I start writing immediately, ideas hitting faster than I can organize them.
Teams. Buzzers, real or imaginary, stays undecided.
A completely unhinged scoring system that probably makes less sense the longer you look at it.
Rounds. Lightning challenges. A final showdown.
I will, obviously, be hosting. There will be commentary. There may be theme music.
Honestly, I black out for a second.
When I come back, I've written "GRAND PRIZE???" in all caps and circled it three times.
I am, quite frankly, unstoppable.
Then a sudden flicker of confusion brushes through the bond, sharp and immediate.
From him.
I pause, blink once, and then smile slowly as the realization settles in.
"Oh."
I lean back into the couch, deeply satisfied.
"Good," I murmur, pleased.
If I have to feel him, then he gets to feel this too.
I'm going to absolutely assault him with my chaos, actually.
The chaos. The joy. The completely unhinged lesson-planning energy. The full, unfiltered force of what happens when I am left alone with a pen, a notebook, and absolutely no one to tell me not to turn multiplication into a competitive, fully hosted event.
"You're welcome," I say sweetly.
Then I take another bite of cookie and keep writing.
Later, the laundry is going, outfits are laid out across my bed, and I am standing in the middle of my room with my hands on my hips like a woman assessing the work of a true artist. Because I am a planner.
Because organization is important. Because if my internal life is going to resemble a hostile takeover, then at the very least I can look incredible while it happens.
Monday is checkered pants. Tuesday is overalls. Wednesday is aggressively pink. Thursday is questionable but committed. Friday is celebratory chaos.
I step back and admire the lineup.
"Iconic."
A softer flicker moves through me then, warmer and quieter than the rest, and I know instantly that it is him again.
Not overwhelming.
Just there.
I roll my eyes.
"Don't like that," I mutter.
I point at my chest, once again forced into a deeply unfair one sided conflict.
"Stop reacting to me. This is a one way show."
It is not, unfortunately, a one way show.
The knock comes out of nowhere.
Sharp. Unexpected.
I freeze and blink toward the door.
"That better not be you," I mutter, because honestly, at this point, who even knows.
It is not him.
Obviously.
I open the door to find my landlord standing there looking entirely too cheerful for a man who is about to interrupt my evening, and I become suspicious immediately.
"Hi, Claire!"
I narrow my eyes.
"Hi."
"So," he says, shifting his weight in a way that tells me I am not going to like the next sentence, "we're going to need to tent the building for a week."
I blink once.
Then again.
"Excuse me?"
"Pests," he says quickly. "It's standard. Totally normal."
I stare at him, flat and unimpressed.
"Have you been paid to say this?"
He blinks. "What? No."
I lean against the doorframe and cross my arms.
"So if I come by," I say slowly, "no one will be here. Because it's not safe."
"Yes," he says. "Exactly."
I squint harder.
"You're not lying to me."
"I am not lying to you."
I study him for another second, long enough to make him visibly uncomfortable, which feels correct and deserved under the circumstances.
Good.
Then I sigh.
"Okay. No problem."
Relief floods his face with embarrassing speed.
"I have a close friend I can stay with," I add.
He nods quickly.
"Perfect. Yeah. Great."
"Mhm."
I close the door, then stand there for a second in the sudden silence of my apartment, looking around at my things and my life and the small familiar space I have built for myself, all of it packed into one place I suddenly cannot use.
There is a beat of stillness.
Then I grab a bag.
An hour later, I am standing on a very familiar doorstep with bags slung over both shoulders and another one sitting at my feet, staring at the door like I might be able to intimidate it into opening onto an entirely different reality.
"Absolutely not," I mutter.
A flicker moves through the bond immediately. Him. Awareness. Sharp. Immediate.
He knows I'm here.
Of course he knows.
I close my eyes and take a breath.
Then I knock.
Because apparently this is my life now.