Chapter 6
GRAYSON
The second Harlow leaves, the apartment exhales. Not in an overly dramatic way, but the tension Kai pretends he doesn’t carry loosens, and the room shifts back into what it knows how to be.
Weston is the first one to say it.
“Your sister’s cool,” he announces, mouth full of chips like that’s a qualifying credential.
Kai doesn’t look up from the sink. He’s rinsing something that doesn’t need rinsing. “Good.”
Asher, who is stacking paper plates into a neater pile than they deserve, glances over. “She handled the chaos better than you did last weekend, Cooper.”
Weston points at him. “Hale, you’re allergic to fun.”
Asher’s mouth twitches, like he’s trying not to smile. “No, I’m allergic to you.”
Weston sighs, like he’s burdened by greatness. “Same thing.”
Kai’s shoulders are still closer to his ears than not. Most wouldn’t notice, but I know him. I’ve lived with him for three years. I’ve watched him block shots with his body and his emotions with the same stubborn efficiency. He finally turns, eyes sharp but controlled. Captain sharp.
“Everyone out in ten,” Kai says.
Groans erupt.
One guy—Mason, I think—complains, “But the sun is still up.”
Kai’s voice stays level. “And my patience isn’t.”
Weston drops onto the couch like a fallen soldier. “Mercer’s in Dad Mode again.”
Kai lifts his gaze. “You want to test me right now, Cooper?”
Weston raises both hands. “Nope. I’m a model citizen.”
Asher snorts. “That’s a lie.”
I grab a trash bag and start collecting the casualties—crumpled napkins, empty cans, a plate someone left on the arm of the couch, like we live in a barn, and we do not live in a barn.
We live in an apartment that Kai treats like a sanctuary.
Everything has a role. Everything has a place.
Everything gets cleared out before it can become a problem. It’s not controlling. It’s…Kai.
I dump the first bag by the door and go back for the second when Weston says, “So, Bennett…you gonna tell us why Mercer looked like he was ready to murder you when you talked to her?”
I freeze for half a second—just long enough for my spine to tighten. I recover quickly, because I’m not giving Weston the satisfaction.
“I was being polite,” I say, stacking cups. “There’s a difference.”
Weston’s grin turns feral. “There is not.”
Asher flicks a dish towel at Weston’s chest. “Let it go.”
Weston catches it and clutches it like a wounded lover. “Why are you defending him? He’s got a pen pal.”
“It’s not a pen pal,” I say, because if he keeps calling it that, it becomes something real.
Weston leans forward, delighted. “It’s a forum resource.”
Asher’s gaze shifts to me, calm and steady. “Is it helping?”
“Yes,” I say automatically.
And then I regret it because Weston’s eyes light up like I just handed him gasoline.
“Aww,” he coos. “Bennett’s got feelings.”
“I don’t,” I snap.
“You do,” Weston insists. “You’re just allergic to acknowledging them.”
Kai sets a plate in the drying rack with a little more force than necessary—quiet irritation, not temper.
“Cooper,” Kai says, tone clipped, “drop it.”
Weston spreads his arms. “I’m trying to bond. Team chemistry.”
Kai’s eyes narrow. “Team chemistry doesn’t require you to interrogate my roommate.”
Weston’s brows lift. “Ooh. Protective. Is this about Bennett or—”
Kai cuts him off before he can finish. Not harsh—final.
“It’s about keeping my house respectful,” Kai says. “And keeping you from being an idiot.”
Weston blinks once, then grins like he’s proud. “Copy that. Respectful idiots only.”
Kai points at the door. “Ten minutes.”
Guys start filtering out with lazy complaints, grabbing hoodies and keys and leftover chips like raccoons. When it’s just the four of us, the apartment feels bigger. Quieter. Like now the walls can hear us.
Weston rummages through the fridge. “Do we have anything that isn’t eggs?”
Kai doesn’t look up from the counter he’s wiping. “No.”
Weston sighs dramatically. “Tragic.”
Asher grabs his bag and slings it over his shoulder. “I’m heading out. Homework.”
Weston points at him. “NERD.”
Asher’s eyes flick to me. “You good?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
Asher pauses like he’s debating whether to say more, then just nods once—simple, solid—and heads out. The door shuts. Weston waits exactly one second before he turns into a menace again.
“So,” he says, leaning on the counter like he’s hosting a talk show. “Bennett.”
Kai’s head snaps up. “Don’t.”
Weston holds up his hands. “I’m not talking about your sister. I’m talking about him.”
Kai’s stare stays sharp. “Then choose your words better.”
Weston grins. “Okay, Captain.”
Kai points at the door. “Leave.”
Weston holds up a finger. “One more thing.”
Kai’s eyes could freeze water. “Weston.”
And for once, Weston actually softens. Just slightly.
“She seems like…she’s doing her best,” Weston says, and there’s no joke in it. “Your sister. That’s all.”
Kai doesn’t answer right away. His gaze drops to the counter, to the clean lines, to something he can control.
“She is,” he says finally. Quiet.
Weston nods once like he understands the part Kai didn’t say. “Okay.”
Then he snatches the last soda from the fridge, grins, and bolts.
The door shuts. And now it’s just Kai and me in our too-clean kitchen, surrounded by the remains of a barbecue that was somehow both normal and not normal at all.
I tie off another trash bag and haul it toward the door.
Kai watches me like he’s trying to decide whether to say something. I beat him to it.
“You okay?” I ask.
Kai’s gaze sharpens. “I’m fine.”
I snort. “Liar.”
Kai’s jaw ticks. He looks past me toward the hallway, then back. “She’s—”
“Okay,” I supply.
Kai’s brows draw together. “Is she?”
I hesitate. Not because I don’t think she’s okay. Because okay is a loaded word. It means different things depending on what you’re afraid of.
“She seemed…” I search for the right word. “Steady.”
Kai exhales through his nose. “She’s good at looking steady.”
Something in my chest tightens—not pity. Recognition.
I hook my thumb toward the kitchen. “You want to talk about it?”
Kai’s stare goes flat. “No.”
Of course.
I don’t push.
I take the trash out.
Outside, the October air is cooler than in the apartment.
The sun is dipping low, turning the parking lot gold.
Somewhere across campus, people are yelling about something meaningless and important.
Normal college noise. I dump the bag and stand there for a second, letting my brain settle.
Because my brain doesn’t settle easily. It likes to pace. It likes to pick at things.
Like the way Harlow mapped the room when she walked in—fast, sharp, like she needed to know where every door was.
Like the way she stayed near the edge and didn’t apologize for it.
Like the way she laughed at my taped-stick joke, even though she tried to swallow it.
And yeah—like the way she flinched when Kai called her name. That one sticks. Not because it’s dramatic. Because it’s small. And small is where the truth lives.
I head back upstairs before my thoughts can turn into a spiral. Kai’s in the living room now, collecting cups. He’s calmer. Still tense, but less. I toss my keys into the bowl by the door and peel off my hoodie.
Kai glances up. “You hungry?”
I blink. “Is that a real question? We literally just ate.”
Kai shrugs. “I eat when I’m stressed.”
I flop onto the couch, letting it swallow me.
My muscles are the good kind of heavy—the kind that comes from practice and lifting and being used up in the way I know how to be used up.
Kai sits in the armchair across from me, phone in his hand, scrolling with that focused expression like he’s reviewing game film.
After a beat, he says, “You were good today.”
I look at him. “What?”
“With her,” Kai says, like he hates that he’s saying it. “You didn’t crowd her.”
It’s the closest thing I’ll get to praise from Kai Mercer, so I take it.
“Thanks,” I say, keeping it casual. “I know how to behave.”
Kai’s stare says, debatable.
Then he adds, quieter, “Just…don’t make it complicated.”
My chest tightens. I keep my expression flat. “It’s not complicated.”
Kai’s gaze holds mine for a beat too long. I don’t blink.
Finally, he nods once. “Good.”
Then he stands. “I’m going to shower.” He disappears down the hall.
And I’m left alone with the quiet—my least favorite environment, because it gives my thoughts room to stretch.
I turn the TV on. Sports highlights. Hockey clips.
A football recap featuring Carter Hayes looking annoyingly successful.
I watch it for thirty seconds before the familiar restlessness crawls up my spine.
My phone is on the coffee table, face down, like that makes it less tempting.
It doesn’t.
I flip it over. No new notifications. I shouldn’t care.
I do anyway.
I try to wait like a normal person. I stretch. I do dishes that aren’t mine because cleaning makes my brain quieter. I wipe counters that are already clean because apparently Kai’s stress-cleaning habits are contagious.
By the time Kai comes out of the shower, my skin feels too tight. My head is too loud. He pauses in the hallway, towel around his neck, watching me wipe down a counter that’s already spotless.
“You okay?” he asks.
I glare at him. “Stop stealing my line.”
Kai’s mouth twitches. “Answer the question.”
“I’m fine,” I say.
Kai’s eyes narrow. “Liar.”
I point the rag at him. “Go to bed.”
Kai gestures toward the clock like it’s evidence. “It’s nine.”
“Exactly,” I say. “Sleep. Normal human behavior.”
Kai studies me like he knows I’m not really talking about him. Then he nods once and disappears into his room. The apartment quiets again. I stare at my phone. Still nothing. I should put it down. I should read. I should do literally anything else.
Instead, I open the forum.
The PCU insomnia thread is alive, as always—people venting, joking, posting memes like humor is a life raft.
I scroll until I find her username.
LittleTooMuch.
No new message.
My stomach does a weird drop. It’s stupid. Yet it matters.
She’s not a person in my world. She’s a username. A late-night distraction. A resource—
A laugh in the dark. A voice that doesn’t know I’m a hockey player or a senior under a microscope. A place where I’m just…me.
My thumb hovers.
I shouldn’t be the one to start it every time.
I’m not desperate.
I’m not.
I type anyway.
NumberEleven: you alive?
I stare at the screen, waiting for the three dots. They don’t come. I toss the phone onto the couch and stand, restless. I pace once. Twice. I drink water straight from the bottle like a caveman. Then I check my phone again.
Nothing.
My brain starts inventing scenarios. Maybe she fell asleep. Maybe she’s out. Maybe her brother dragged her to something else. Maybe—
My phone buzzes.
I snatch it so fast I nearly drop it.
Three dots.
Then the message appears.
LittleTooMuch: Unfortunately yes.
LittleTooMuch: Sorry. I fell into a social black hole.
A grin pulls at my mouth before I can stop it.
NumberEleven: social black hole sounds violent. you ok?
Three dots. A pause.
LittleTooMuch: I survived.
LittleTooMuch: My brother asked me to hang out with some of his friends again today.
LittleTooMuch: Lots of loud. Lots of people. Lots of pretending I was fine.
NumberEleven: pretending is exhausting.
LittleTooMuch: Yes.
LittleTooMuch: Also, I left early and now I feel guilty because leaving early shouldn’t feel like a victory.
NumberEleven: it’s still a victory if you did what you needed.
NumberEleven: leaving early is better than staying until you can’t function.
LittleTooMuch: That is EXACTLY what I said. Are we the same person?
I laugh quietly to myself.
NumberEleven: definitely not.
LittleTooMuch: Fair.
LittleTooMuch: You ever feel like everyone else got a manual for how to be normal and you missed the download?
My throat tightens.
That hits too close.
NumberEleven: yeah. i fake it. some days it’s convincing.
A pause.
LittleTooMuch: I think you’d be convincing even on bad days.
My chest does a stupid little thing.
I type the safer answer.
NumberEleven: bold assumption. i’m extremely annoying.
LittleTooMuch: Good. I like annoying.
LittleTooMuch: Annoying people are honest.
I swallow.
NumberEleven: i’m honest when it’s 2 a.m. and no one can fact check me.
LittleTooMuch: So always.
NumberEleven: rude.
LittleTooMuch: Accurate.
I grin.
Then:
LittleTooMuch: Can I ask you something without it being weird?
My pulse kicks.
NumberEleven: depends. are you about to ask my social security number?
LittleTooMuch: No.
LittleTooMuch: … Maybe.
NumberEleven: definitely weird.
LittleTooMuch: Ok, ok. Real question.
LittleTooMuch: Do you ever feel like you’re living for everyone else? Like…their expectations. Their opinions. Their idea of who you should be.
My fingers go still.
Because yes.
Because scouts watch me like I’m a product.
Because coaches talk about “next level” like it’s inevitable.
I type what I can admit.
NumberEleven: yeah.
NumberEleven: i feel like i’m always being evaluated.
LittleTooMuch: That sounds exhausting.
NumberEleven: it is.
NumberEleven: but i’m good at pretending i’m fine.
LittleTooMuch: Same.
That single word sits in my chest like a weight.
Same.
I type before I can think.
NumberEleven: you never have to pretend with me.
Three dots appear instantly.
LittleTooMuch: I know.
My throat tightens.
I run a hand through my hair and stare at the ceiling, trying to understand why this feels like something.
My phone buzzes again.
LittleTooMuch: Also, for the record, I’m proud of myself.
LittleTooMuch: Even if it’s annoying.
NumberEleven: good. you should be.
LittleTooMuch: Don’t get used to me being emotionally healthy.
NumberEleven: wouldn’t dream of it.
LittleTooMuch: Ok. I’m going to try to sleep. Don’t commit crimes.
NumberEleven: no promises.
LittleTooMuch: I knew it. Criminal.
NumberEleven: revolutionary, actually.
LittleTooMuch: Sure. Goodnight, revolutionary.
My chest loosens.
NumberEleven: Goodnight, little detective.
I set my phone down and lean back into the couch.
The apartment is quiet. Kai’s door is closed. The night outside is calm. My brain is still loud but not sharp. More like…busy. Like it’s holding something it doesn’t know where to put.
I think about Harlow for half a second—just a flicker. Her in our doorway. Her laugh. The way she flinched when Kai called her.
Don’t go there, man.
Too messy. Not happening.
Because wanting is dangerous. It makes you careless. It makes you reach for things you shouldn’t. So I don’t reach. I just stare at the ceiling until my eyes start to burn.
And when sleep finally creeps in, I let it.