Chapter Seventy-Five
Xavier
The house is warm when I step inside. Something savory lingers in the air. The television hums in the background. Squirt lifts his head from his bed, then decides I'm not interesting enough to stay awake for.
Ruby barely looks up. She's curled into the corner of the couch, papers spread around her. Notes. Printouts. Highlighted sections. A pencil tucked behind one ear.
I shut the door behind me. She glances up then. “You're early.”
“Wrapped the site before dark.”
“That's good.” Her attention drops right back to the paperwork.
That's it. No smile. No smart comment. No teasing. Nothing.
I shrug out of my jacket and hang it by the door. “What're you working on?”
“Paperwork.”
I move closer. Close enough to see the pages. Course descriptions. Program requirements. Deadlines. Not paperwork. Plans.
My hand closes around one of the sheets before I think better of it. Columbia. Bachelor's in Veterinary Technology. Two hours away. My stomach drops. “You applying for a bachelor's program?”
“Yeah.”
I look down at the page again. “You decided against the associate's degree?”
“I'm leaning toward the Bachelor's.” Matter-of-fact. Already decided.
I set the paper down. “You didn't tell me.”
She shrugs. “Didn't seem like something I needed to run by anyone.”
The words are like a punch in the gut. I look back at the paperwork. Back at the school. Two hours away. The knot in my stomach tightens. “When were you planning on telling me you were moving?”
Her head snaps up. “What?”
“The school.”
Understanding flashes across her face. Then disbelief. “Xavier.”
“What?”
“It's online.”
“It's what?”
“The program.” She points to the page. “It's online.”
The fight drains out of me so fast it leaves me dizzy. “You're not moving?”
Her brows lift. “No.” The answer comes slowly. Like she can't believe we're having this conversation. “I wasn't planning to move.”
Silence. I drag a hand down my face. Because apparently, I've spent the last five minutes convincing myself she's halfway out the door.
A laugh escapes her. Small. Disbelieving. “You thought I was leaving Brookhaven?”
Maybe. The look she gives me says exactly what she thinks of that.
“I've lived here my whole life. My dad’s here. My best friends are here.”
“I know.”
“Then why would I move?”
Because you're pulling away. Because you didn’t tell me. Because I hate how easy it was to picture you leaving. I don’t say any of that. “You didn’t tell me.”
The amusement fades. There it is. The real issue. Not the school. Not the distance. Us.
Her gaze drops back to the paperwork. “I didn’t think it mattered.”
“You didn't think I'd care?”
Her pencil stops moving. For the first time since I walked inside. “I didn't know if I should tell you.”
I sink onto the couch beside her. “You should.”
Her eyes search mine. Why? The question hangs there even though she never says it.
I gesture toward the papers. “The school. Whatever comes next. I want to know.”
“You do?”
“Yeah.” The answer comes easy. Too easy. Because it's true.
She looks away first, down at the papers. At the notes she'd rather focus on—the things she can control.
I wait. Nothing. She keeps writing like the conversation’s over. Like I didn’t tell her something that felt dangerously close to something I never do.
Something inside me snaps. I reach over and pull the paper from her hands. Not rough. Not gentle either. Her head jerks up. “Hey.”
I set it on the coffee table, out of reach.
“What're you doing?”
“You don't get to do this.”
Her brows pull together. “Do what?”
“This.” I gesture between us. “Act like none of this matters. It does matter.”
“Not enough.” Her expression hardens.
I lean forward. “You've spent the last week acting as if you've already decided how this ends.”
Silence. Bullseye. I see it hit. She looks away. I keep going. “You don’t tell me things. You pull back. You make plans and keep them to yourself.”
“I’m protecting myself.” The words come out quiet. Honest. A punch to the chest.
I lean back as my stomach tightens. “From me.” She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to. I already know. “You think this is temporary.”
Her throat works. “I think you made it clear what you want.”
I did. I can’t lie about that. But even knowing I’m the one who set the rules, it still stings. I drag a hand through my hair. Whatever rules I set don’t feel right. I don’t want her pulling away. Acting like I’m an afterthought. Feeling like she’s unimportant.
I clear my throat. “I don't want a label. Labels become expectations. And expectations become responsibility. People get in your business. Make things complicated. What’s going on between us is no one else’s business.”
People leave when real life happens. When things get messy. At least, when it comes to me, that’s what happens, maybe if there are no labels. Or expectations. This could be different.
Her eyes flash. “See?”
“No.” I shake my head. “That's not what I’m saying.”
“Then what’re you saying?”
The answer catches somewhere in my chest because I know exactly what I mean. I don't know how to explain it.
“I’m saying I want you to stop acting like you’re halfway out the door. Or that you’re shoving me out the door. School. Work.” I swallow hard. “The future. I want to be part of those conversations."
Her breath catches. Small. Almost silent. “And if I don’t?”
If she meant it, I’d walk away even if it tore a jagged piece out of me. But the challenge is weak. I see it in her eyes, so I lean closer. “Then I'm going to keep showing up anyway.”
Her expression cracks. Not completely, but enough. A slow breath leaves her. “You’re unbelievably stubborn.”
A corner of my mouth lifts. “So I’ve heard.”
For the first time all evening, her smile appears. Small. But real. Showing a flash of her radiance. The light that brightens any room she walks into. And like that, the distance between us doesn’t feel so impossible.