Chapter Seventy-Three
Xavier
The Next Morning
I know she’s awake before I open my eyes. Not because she moves. Because she doesn’t, the room is too still. No shifting sheets. No slow stretch. No half-asleep reach that lands without thinking.
Just space. I open my eyes.
She’s on her side, back to me, one arm tucked under her pillow like she settled there and stayed. Not curled in. Not close. Just… there.
Last night is still sitting under my skin, tight, unresolved, not something that faded when the lights went out. It wasn’t her being ambivalent about what she wanted to eat. The entire night, she was off. Subdued.
Studying for a test I’m not sure she’s even taking. Falling asleep before I made it into the room. I’d love to wake up and pretend it didn’t happen, but now this….
I push up on one elbow, watching her longer than I should. “You’re awake.”
She doesn’t turn right away. Just shifts slightly, enough to acknowledge it. “Yeah.” Her voice is even. Too even.
I sit up, dragging a hand down my face. “You always this quiet in the morning?” I try to make the question come out lightly, a bit of a joke, but it doesn’t sound that way. I know she’s not this quiet in the morning. She’s never this quiet.
“Sometimes.” Not defensive. Not sharp. Just… flat. That’s worse.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, grabbing my jeans from the floor, and pulling them on.
‘It’s been quiet. Maybe it’s done.’ That wasn’t about the stalker. Not really. I feel it now, sitting here with the space between us that wasn’t there before.
She meant this. This arrangement. Me.
I step into the hallway, not waiting for anything else, too afraid to ask her if she wants me to leave. The hollowness inside me shifts, growing with each step. I’m worried about her safety. That’s the first thought that comes to mind.
No, that’s a lie. The first thought that comes to mind is that if I ask her and she tells me she’s done, I don’t know how to process that. I don’t know how to walk away. And I’ve never not known how to walk away. It’s what I do.
I run my hand through my hair, leaving strands pointed in every direction. The kitchen is colder than it should be. I move through it on instinct, coffee, cabinet, filter, hands finding things before I think about where they are. The familiarity. The ease.
Tension takes up root in my shoulders. But it’s not easy. It was, and now, it’s not. How in the hell did I get here? I start the coffee to do something. Something to anchor this into routine instead of whatever the hell just shifted between us.
It doesn’t work. Because it doesn’t feel the same. The machine hums to life, filling the silence. I rest my hands on the counter, staring at nothing.
We had a rhythm. Not perfect. Not defined. But it worked. I showed up. She didn’t push. We kept it contained. And now…. Now it feels like she’s already stepping back from it. Before I’ve even had the chance to decide if I would.
I rub that fucking spot on my chest as I straighten, grabbing a mug, pouring coffee I don’t want.
She’s out of bed when I go back in. Dressed. That’s new too. Usually slower. Takes her time. Moves around the room like she’s not in a hurry to leave it.
Now she’s pulling her hair back, movements efficient, like she’s already halfway out the door.
“You’re up early.” The bitter taste of the coffee rises in my throat.
She glances at me. “Couldn’t sleep.”
Lie. Or partial. Either way, I’m not stupid. I know what this is. She’s yanking herself back and putting distance between us.
I hold her gaze as my fingers bite into the ceramic mug. “You usually can.”
“Not today.”
I step further into the room, setting the coffee on the dresser without asking if she wants it. “I’ll swing by tonight. Check things. Make sure everything’s still–”
“You don’t have to.” It’s quick. Too quick.
My attention sharpens. “I know I don’t have to.”
She bites her bottom lip. “It’s been quiet. I think… whatever it was, it might be done.”
There it is again. Same words. Same tone. But now I hear it for what it is. Distance. There’s no question that she’s pulling back. The only question is, does she want it, or does she think I do? Does she think I’m here out of obligation? Yes, I care about her safety, but that’s not why I’m here.
I take a step closer. “You think that’s what I mean? That if this is over, we’re over?”
Her brow furrows. “What?”
“Do you think I want this to be over if things settle down?”
She hesitates. Just long enough. “I think.” She pauses as if she’s trying to find the right way to say what she’s thinking and feeling. “We said this wasn’t supposed to turn into something more.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Her eyes flash with anger as she crosses her arms over her chest. “Then what’re you asking?”
I don’t answer right away. Because I already know. And I don’t like it. “I feel you pushing me away. I want to know whether this is what you want or what you think I want. If you think I’m planning an exit strategy.”
She exhales, looking away before meeting my eyes again. “I’m trying not to let it get ahead of what it’s supposed to be.”
There’s nothing emotional in it. No heat. No argument. Just… decision. That lands worse than anything she could’ve said last night.
I step closer again, closing the space she’s been putting back piece by piece. “This doesn’t reset because you decide it does.”
“I’m not resetting it.” Her entire body is stiff as if she’s willing herself to stay in control. “I’m keeping it where it was supposed to be.”
“Casual.” I bite out the word. Even though it’s my fucking word. It’s what I asked for. Demanded. And she’s giving it to me.
“Yes. No expectations.”
It shouldn’t piss me off, but it does. I made the rules. She’s trying to follow them. But this is not her. Unfeeling. Closed off. Passionless. None of those are her. She’s vibrant. Full of life. Full of color.
We barely got started, and she’s decided it’s over. My gaze holds hers as I fight the urge to punch a hole in the wall, but I’d only have to fix the damned spot if I did. “And that includes pulling away whenever you decide we’re getting too close?”
Her arms unfold, hands slamming onto her hips as she meets my gaze dead-on. “It includes not pretending this is something it’s not.”
Silence stretches between us. I feel it now, clear, sharp, not something I can ignore. She’s already adjusting. Already stepping back. And I’m…. Not. That’s the problem. I want to pretend it has to do with her stalker, and it does. But that’s not the only reason.
Of course, I don’t want anything to happen to her. The thought of someone hurting her has my stomach in knots. But I also can’t imagine not spending time with her and not being with her.
Fuck, I’m an idiot. What in the fuck am I supposed to do with that? I drag my hand through my hair again, exhaling, forcing my voice back under control. “I’ll check the house. At least for a few more days.”
“Okay.”
No pushback. No argument. No stay. Just acceptance. In a perfect world, this wouldn’t bother me. This would be what I wanted, what I demanded.
But it feels like someone is shoving a meat cleaver into my chest, hacking my body into tiny pieces. I pick up my keys from the dresser, pausing for half a second before turning toward the door. “Lock up.”
“I will.”
I step out before there’s anything else to say. Before I give this more space than it already has.
The air outside is cold enough to bite. I scan the yard, fence, gate, tree line. Everything in place. Nothing off. Should feel like a win. It doesn’t.
I climb into my truck, grip tightening on the wheel as I start the engine, banging my palm on the steering wheel. She’s already decided how this ends before I’ve even figured out if I’m ready to let it.
After the engine catches, I pull out of the drive. And for the first time since this started, leaving feels like something’s slipping. And I don’t have a way to stop it.