- thrity one - dana
It’s been a few days since that night at the club.
Alex apologized. For the words, for the way he pulled back, for the coldness in his voice that night that felt like it was meant to cut. I apologized too—because I hurt him first, poked a bruise I didn’t even know existed.
We’re okay now.
Theoretically.
He’s been sweet. Really sweet. Bringing me coffee before my shifts, dragging me out to cafes when I’d rather sulk, dropping little thoughtful gifts in my bag—stickers I’d once said I liked, a sketch pencil I ran out of, a pack of my favorite gum with a dumb Post-it that says “chew this instead of your lip.”
When I’m caught up in my own world, trying to ignore it all, I’ll turn around and find him leaning against the counter, those dark eyes following me with a look that says he won’t leave until he’s made sure I’m okay.
He's been trying.
And I've never been more grateful.
But I feel like a ghost around him.
My smiles feel like a performance. My laughs are shallow. I keep catching myself staring at him—trying to solve a puzzle.
Like if I stare hard enough, maybe I’ll find the answers.
Why is Alexander Lancaster self-destructing?
“Order up!”
I blink, snapping back to reality. The café is warm and bustling and full of distractions, but my mind’s a storm cloud on loop. I grab the tray and take it to the couple by the window. Smile and Nod. “Enjoy!”
Back to the counter.
Back to spiraling.
Because the thing I can’t shake isn’t about what he said that night. It’s about who he claims to be.
Who he chooses to be.
Drug dealing isn’t a phase. It’s not like smoking or dyeing your hair black because you’re bored. It’s dangerous. It hurts people. People like that girl in the club bathroom who didn’t wake up.
And what if someone Alex gave drugs to ends up like that girl?
I wipe down the counter. There’s a smudge that won’t go away, and I’m scrubbing like it’s personal.
Alex could have everything.
He’s smart. Funny. Charming. Stupidly hot in that dark, messed-up way. People like him are supposed to be in sleek suits or on magazine covers—not handing pills to strangers in bathrooms.
But maybe that’s the part that guts me.
Maybe that’s why it hurts.
Because I’ve seen the other side of him. The version that wakes up to my alarm before me just to brew coffee. The one that talks to Lord Muffin like she’s a person. The guy who looked me in the eyes and kissed me like I was the only real thing in his world.
The Alex who claims to hate studying, who grumbles about how his parents shoved business down his throat like it’s the only thing that matters. But when he talks about anything else—about history or philosophy, about a theory or an idea—he’s sharp.
He gets that glint in his eye, the one that says he's completely immersed, like the world just fades out and he’s there.
But he hides that part of him, like it’s some kind of secret he doesn’t want anyone to see.
Because being smart doesn’t fit with the version of him he’s trying to sell.
He’d rather choose this.
He’d rather choose a world that’s swallowing him whole.
“Dana?”
I look up. It’s my manager. She’s giving me that look like she’s been calling my name for the third time.
“Sorry,” I mumble. I don’t even remember what I was doing.
She walks away. I stare at the cappuccino machine like it’ll give me answers.
Because how do you even bring this up?
How do you tell someone, “Hey, I know you’ve been nothing but sweet to me lately, but I can’t sleep because I think you’re quietly destroying yourself”?
How do you say, “You matter to me. Too much. Enough that I’m scared I won’t survive watching you implode”?
I don't know.
So I smile. I serve. I pretend.
But in the quiet corners of my head, one truth keeps circling like vultures:
Alexander Lancaster is self-destructing.
And if he doesn’t stop soon…
I might have to save myself instead.
. . .
The apartment is quiet when I get back.
It always is when he’s waiting for me like this—pretending he’s doing something boring, like scrolling on his phone or tossing a ball up and down like he doesn’t hear my key in the lock.
Tonight, he’s sprawled on the floor on my side of the room, lying on his back, one arm tucked behind his head like a pillow. Lord Muffin is curled up on his chest.
He doesn’t look up when I walk in, just tosses the ball into the air again and catches it without looking. “If this is about the chocolate croissant I left in your bag, I meant for it to get squished. It’s texture innovation, babe.”
I drop my bag and kick off my boots. “Alex.”
He catches the ball one last time and lets it rest on his stomach. “Yeah?”
“I care a lot about you.”
That makes him look at me.
His expression shifts. Barely. But I see it.
The amusement still dances around his mouth, but something in his eyes sharpens—like he’s alert now, like he knows this isn’t a joke wrapped in a compliment.
He sits up slowly, Muffin protesting with a chirp before hopping off him. He doesn't say anything, just waits, watching me like I’m a puzzle he wants to take apart gently.
I cross my arms. “I need to say this.”
“I’m listening.”
I sit across from him, legs crossed.
“You’ve been amazing these past few days,” I start. “Like, genuinely. You’ve been trying and I see it. I love it, I feel spoiled. You’ve been sweet and thoughtful and patient and—”
“Hot,” he interrupts with a tiny smirk.
I give him a look. “Shut up.”
“I mean, I’m just making sure we’re covering the full list of admirable qualities here.”
I bite back a laugh, but it dies quickly. “I’m serious, Alex.”
He nods. The smirk fades, replaced with something softer. Something nervous.
My voice drops. “But the truth is... I’m not okay.”
His brows knit, and for once, he doesn’t have a quip ready.
“I’ve been thinking a lot. About you. About… the life you’re in.” I inhale, steadying my voice. “And I keep asking myself—is this who he is, or just who he thinks he has to be?”
He leans forward, arms resting on his knees, gaze locked on mine. “Dana—”
“No. Let me finish.”
He shuts up. Jaw tight.
I take a breath. “I care about you more than I even know what to do with. Which is why this—all of this—hurts. Because you are literally throwing yourself off a cliff and acting like it’s a tightrope walk.”
“Dramatic,” he mutters under his breath, but it’s weak. Defensive.
“And maybe I am. Maybe I’m too sensitive or too emotional or too whatever—but this matters to me. You matter to me.” I pause, searching his face. “So I need to ask you something.”
He tilts his head, eyes narrowed like he’s bracing himself.
“I need you to choose.”
He blinks.
“Choose between… the life you think is yours—the chaos, the dealing, the damage—and you. The version of you that you want. Not the version your parents forced on you, not the one your demons convinced you to become. Just… you.”
He’s quiet. Too quiet. Eyes dark, unreadable.
I swallow. “I’m not asking you to give me an answer right now. I want you to take your time and really think about it. But I needed to say it. I can’t keep pretending I’m okay watching you destroy yourself.”
The silence stretches.
Then finally, Alex shifts. His tongue darts out to wet his lips. His voice is quiet, but still laced with that same teasing rhythm. “So… if I pick me… do I still get you?”
My heart stutters.
“I don’t know,” I whisper. “I think… if you really choose yourself, the real you, I won’t need to leave.”
He leans closer, voice low, words almost tender. “What if I don’t know who the hell I am without all that?”
“Then find out.”
His eyes flick over my face like he’s trying to memorize it. “You’re gonna break my heart, Archer.”
I smile, sad and soft, and cradle his face on my hands. “Only if you let yourself go down with the life you built to protect it.”
He doesn’t say anything after that. Just reaches for my hand and kisses my wrist softly before hooking his pinky with mine.
He may not be ready to answer.
But he’s not letting go either.
That's a good sign, right?
. . .
I press the phone tighter to my ear, the corner of my lips twitching. Mom’s voice is clearer than it’s been in months—steady, sure. Kyle’s in the background, cracking some joke I can’t catch, but it makes her laugh. A real laugh.
“Dana,” she says, gentle now. “I feel like I’m finally coming back to myself.”
I smile. “You sound really good, Mom.”
“She is,” Kyle cuts in, grabbing the phone, I can hear the shuffle. “She’s been painting again. Like, actual walls this time.”
I chuckle softly.
Then he adds, quieter, “We’re moving back to the city. And I mean—if it is possible, you could come stay with us. Just us three. Like when we were little. Like a... real family again.”
The lump rises fast in my throat.
I don’t say much. Just hum. “Yeah. Maybe.”
I look at Alex’s side of the room.
There’s a pause on their end. Like they feel it too. Then Mom says, “We love you, baby.”
“Love you guys too. Don't forget the meds, Mom. And please take care of yourself as well, Kyle.”
I hang up just as the door opens.
Alex walks in with way too much confidence for someone holding takeout and a single daisy like it’s a damn wedding proposal.
“I present to you,” he announces, “an offering of greasy carbs, an unhealthy amount of cheese, and one extremely romantic weed picked outside the café.”
I blink at him.
“You brought me a daisy.”
He winks. “I stole it from a garden. Risked jail for your love.”
I take the flower, smiling. “You’re so dramatic.”
“I'm just learning to be more expressive." He grins wide and sets the food down.
As I stare at the daisy in my hand, the thought of not living with him anymore catches me off guard.
The idea of not seeing him every day, of not hearing his voice whenever I want to, feels like someone just ripped a hole right through the center of my chest.
Please, Alex, please don’t make me have to do that.
. . .
I swear to God, if this thing unravels one more time—”
Alex mutters behind me, low and gravelly, tongue caught between his teeth, his long fingers buried in my hair like he’s diffusing a bomb and trying not to enjoy it too much.
I’m trying so hard not to laugh. “You’re holding it like you’re about to strangle it.”
“That’s because your hair is slippery, Archer,” he grits out, like my hair personally offended him. “And you keep moving.”
“I’m breathing.”
“Exactly. Stop that.”
I snort, and that completely throws him off—he groans as the section he was working on falls loose again.
“Ugh. I give up. You get one braid. One lopsided, pathetic braid. Deal with it.”
I can’t help it. I’m full-on giggling now, covering my mouth. “You tried so hard.”
He huffs, letting his hands rest on my shoulders, warm and heavy and casually possessive. “Yeah, well, I have a newfound respect for salon people. And kindergarten teachers. And anyone who’s ever had to tame your wild ass hair.”
I lean back a little into him, head tilted just enough to peek up. “You looked so focused though. Like, genuinely intense. It was kinda hot.”
That gets a smirk. The dangerous kind. The one that says he knows exactly what he’s doing.
Then it softens.
“Hey,” he says, voice softer now, fingers still idly playing with a strand, “I’ve been thinking about what you said. About who I am when you’re not around.”
I go still. My breath catches.
He pauses, like he’s still forming the thought in real time. “I don’t think I have it all figured out yet,” he admits, quiet and raw, “but I think I’m closer now. To finding myself. Like... for the first time, I actually want to.”
My heart squeezes, full and aching all at once. I twist around to face him, my hands finding his arms, my voice barely above a whisper.
“There is someone worth finding,” I say. “And he’s already right here.”
I lean in, brushing my lips against his—
But he pulls back, a hand slipping between us.
“Nah. You just ruined my masterpiece,” he accuses, deadpan.
I gasp. “It was literally falling apart.”
“It... had character.”
We’re both smiling now, his arms looping around my waist as he pulls me close despite the fake offense.
The braid's a mess. So are we.
But God, it still feels like something beautiful.