Chapter Eighteen
Jace
It begins the moment I wake up. That feeling. That quiet shift in the air. The kind that sneaks in before anyone has actually said anything. The one that tells you something has shifted, and you are just the idiot finally catching up to it.
Last night, I lay in my bed, staring at the ceiling. Waiting. Which is fucking laughable when you think about it, because I do not wait for chicks. Chicks wait for me.
Except last night, I lay there with one arm behind my head, staring at the ceiling and listening for the sound of Bells footsteps coming down the hall because that’s what she has done every night since I’ve been here.
She slips into my room in the dark, curls against my chest with her hair in my face, knees shoved between my legs while she sleeps, her breath warm against my collarbone, her fingers on my skin.
The first night she did it, I thought it would be a one-time thing. A moment of weakness after a lousy day at the hospital. On the second night, I told myself she was scared and still processing everything with her dad. On the third night, I stopped pretending it didn’t matter.
But last night? Nothing. No footsteps. No weight on the mattress beside me. Just silence.
I laid there long enough for the realization to start creeping in under my skin, burrowing deep where I couldn’t shake it loose.
She didn’t need me last night. The crisis is over. Her dad is awake, and suddenly, the reason she kept crawling into my bed every night is gone.
That should have been a good thing. Except there I was, flat on my back in the dark, feeling like some pathetic loser waiting for something that was never meant to stick around in the first place.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, dragging a hand down my face.
This is exactly the kind of shit I avoid. It makes you need someone when you should know better.
I drag myself out of bed, shove the sheets off, and stand still for a second. I grab a clean pair of jeans from the chair and pull them on, not bothering with a belt yet.
I drag myself into the bathroom and turn on the faucet. Cold water rushes into the sink. I lean forward and splash a handful on my face. The shock of it clears my head a bit. Droplets run down my jaw and drip into the porcelain as I brace both hands on the counter.
The guy looking back at me in the mirror looks like a mess.
His hair is all over the place. Eyes are tired and shadowed.
There’s a tightness around my mouth that tells me I already know exactly what kind of mood I’m walking into today.
The kind where I shut everything down, lock it up, and go back to being the asshole everyone expects of me.
I run my hands through my hair and push it back from my face.
“Get a grip, asshole,” I mutter to my reflection.
My gaze drops to the ink reflected in the mirror, the black letters stark against my skin. Hope. The word sits there in bold, crooked letters. Permanent. Mocking.
For a moment, I just stare at it. At the irony of having that particular word on my body when hope is the one thing I learned a long time ago not to rely on.
A quiet laugh escapes me.
Hope.
Out of all the shit I could have put on my body, that is the word I chose. Fucking idiot.
I turn away from the mirror, grab a shirt off the rack, pull it on, and head toward the kitchen.
The coffee machine is ready. Lola programs it every afternoon. She always sets the timer so it brews automatically at 6:30 every morning.
I grab a cup and pour myself some coffee, then lean my hip against the counter and take a long sip, letting the heat burn down my throat.
I can’t stay here feeling this vulnerable shit. That’s why I don’t let people get close.
Footsteps sound from upstairs. I straighten up and lift my eyes toward the staircase.
I take another drink just as she appears.
Lola descends the stairs carrying that huge tote bag over her shoulder. That thing is ridiculous—big enough to carry half her life in it.
Baggy jeans hang low on her hips, loose and worn in a way that makes them look better than anything the girls at school spend hours squeezing into.
She’s wearing one of those knitted sweaters again, cream-colored and soft-looking as hell.
Her hair is pulled back into a long ponytail, and those nerdy glasses sit on her nose.
Christ, she is beautiful. Not the loud kind of beautiful that demands attention. She’s so incredibly beautiful it actually hurts to look at her. She has truly fucked me up.
When she turns her head and looks at me, my heart does this stupid freaking thing—a tiny stumble of beats that pisses me off the second it happens.
Those blue eyes lock with mine across the kitchen, gentle and warm behind her glasses.
“Morning,” she says.
“Hey.” It’s cold and flat, I know, but it’s exactly the way it needs to be.
I look away first, just as I take another sip of coffee and let the burn ground me. Because the second I stare at her for too long, my brain starts doing stupid shit. Like walking over there and backing her up against the wall.
Instead, I lean back against the counter and push every single one of those thoughts back to where they belong. Behind the wall. Locked the fuck down for good. The last thing I want to do is stand here acting like a lovesick idiot waiting for her to notice me.
She crosses the kitchen toward me, and before I can process what is happening, she wraps her arms around my waist.
Her cheek presses against my chest, right over my heart.
Fuck.
My arm wraps around her, pulling her closer even though I know I shouldn’t.
I close my eyes, allowing myself this moment.
Just this once. The feeling of her against me.
The scent of her shampoo. How she fits perfectly beneath my chin, as if she were meant to be there, knowing this could be the last time I get to touch her.
The last moment, she lets me hold her before everything falls apart.
So I memorize it: the warmth of her body pressed against mine, and the way my chest tightens with something I refuse to name.
Then I let her go.
She heads straight for the coffee machine, dropping that ridiculous tote bag onto the chair beside the counter. She grabs a mug, pushing her glasses up her nose.
I watch her, probably longer than I should. The question lingers right there on the tip of my tongue. Why didn’t you come to my bed last night?
It’s a simple question. Three seconds is all it would take to say it. But the moment I imagine the words leaving my mouth, I know exactly how that would sound. Needy. Pathetic. Like I’m just some guy sitting around waiting for a girl to show up.
And fuck that is not me.
I take another sip of coffee instead and remain silent.
I move away from the counter and sit at the table. The chair scrapes against the floor as I lean back and stretch my legs out in front of me, coffee mug resting between my hands.
Lola stays at the counter, moving through the kitchen with her usual restless morning energy. She opens cupboards, then closes them again. Her fingers drum lightly on the countertop for half a second before she reaches for the bread bag. She pulls out two slices and puts them in the toaster.
“You’re quiet,” she says.
“Just tired,” I say. It is the easiest answer. Also, the safest.
She hums softly. Her fingers tap against the counter as she waits, that same restless energy pulsing through her.
The toaster pops a minute later, and the smell of burning bread immediately fills the kitchen.
“Shit,” she mutters.
Thin grey smoke curls out of the toaster in slow spirals, drifting toward the ceiling as if announcing its death to the world. Then the smoke alarm goes off. A sharp, violent screech tears through the kitchen.
“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” Lola says, yanking the toast out and waving the blackened slices uselessly in the air as the alarm keeps blaring above us.
The burnt bread is so black it could be charcoal, crumbling at the edges.
“Fantastic,” she mutters.
The alarm keeps blaring with that same high-pitched shriek that makes my teeth ache.
Lola spins around, glancing up at the ceiling with clear irritation on her face. Her eyes narrow behind her glasses.
“Hold on,” she says, rushing to the hallway closet and yanking open the door.
A second later, she returns with a broom in one hand. She drags a stool under the alarm, its legs scraping against the floor, and climbs onto it without any concern for her balance or safety.
The stool wobbles slightly beneath her weight. She rises on her toes and jabs the broom handle upward toward the ceiling.
The alarm keeps screaming.
“Stop,” she mutters, jabbing the broom harder at the plastic casing. “Stop screaming. Nobody died. It’s just fucking toast.”
Another jab. This time, it’s more intense. The alarm finally stops mid-scream. Silence falls back into the kitchen so suddenly it feels heavy.
Lola freezes for a second, broom still raised above her head before she lowers it and lets out a long breath.
“Honestly,” she mutters, climbing back down off the stool. “Smoke alarms are the most dramatic things in this house.”
I sit watching her, taking in how her hair falls loose from the ponytail, strands hanging around her beautiful face. I observe her shove the broom back toward the closet without bothering to put it away properly, just leaning it against the wall. This is just another normal morning for her.
She is chaos. Complete fucking chaos.
Burnt toast, smoke alarms blaring and she’s running around the kitchen with a broom and murder in her eyes. And somehow, I fucking love it.
I take another sip of coffee as she walks over to the window and pushes it open. Cold air rushes in, carrying the smoke out in thin wisps.
She returns to the counter and looks at the black toast still sitting on the plate.
“Breakfast is ruined,” she says flatly.
“Shocking,” I reply.
She glances over her shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “Helpful.”