Chapter 28
TWENTY-EIGHT
TORI
It’s been ten days since I last saw him.
Ten days of silence that, oddly enough, felt necessary.
The university shutting down over the holiday was its own kind of mercy.
We both needed the space, the time to let the sting fade and the heat settle before either of us said something we couldn’t take back.
He needed ten days to grieve such a tragic loss with his family.
But now that the days have stretched long and slow, I realize how much I’ve missed him.
I didn’t expect that. I thought the distance would make it easier to draw a clean line of friendship in my heart, but instead, every quiet morning has reminded me of his smart mouth, every empty evening of how easily his presence filled a room.
I hate admitting it, even to myself, but he’s wound his way into the rhythm of my days, and without him, everything feels a little off-beat.
Tomorrow, campus opens once again. Tomorrow we go back to work, back to schedules and fluorescent lights and the constant shuffle of papers and people.
I’ve been telling myself I’m ready for that, but the truth is, I don’t want our first words to happen under buzzing ceiling lights with the copier groaning in the background. I don’t want to face him for the first time in an office where anyone could walk past and watch.
So when the knock comes at my apartment door, I know. My heart knows before my brain can catch up.
I open it, and there he is.
Leo Euler. Jeans, a dark sweater, hair rumpled like his hands couldn’t leave it alone on the way over.
And his eyes—God, his eyes stop me. Not older, not exactly, but weighted in a way they weren’t before.
Grief does that. It sharpens, etches lines you don’t see until the light catches them. It puts years in your gaze you haven’t actually lived, and his carry all of it.
“Hi,” he says, voice low, raw from too many days unused.
“Hi.”
For a moment, neither of us moves. The silence stretches, thick with everything we didn’t say over break, everything we couldn’t. It doesn’t feel like absence anymore—it feels like the edge of something about to break open.
“Can I come in?” he asks.
I should hesitate. Instead, I open the door the rest of the way, a silent welcome.
Leo steps inside, careful, like he’s not sure he belongs here. He stands near the door, hands shoved in his pockets, eyes flicking around the room like he needs a moment to find his footing.
I cross my arms, not defensive—just grounding myself. “You’re here.”
“Yeah.” He lets out a short laugh, more breath than sound. “Didn’t exactly plan it. Just… couldn’t wait until tomorrow.”
His words hang there, fragile, and I realize he means it. He couldn’t wait.
I nod toward the couch. “Sit.”
He does, leaning forward, elbows braced on his knees, head bowed like he’s carrying something he hasn’t decided how to set down. I sink into the other side of the couch, my legs tucked under me, and wait.
When he finally lifts his gaze, it nearly undoes me. His eyes are raw, rimmed red like he hasn’t slept, but steady, searching.
“I need to say I’m sorry,” he starts. “For Stephanie. For the way that looked, for how it must’ve felt walking in on that. It wasn’t—” His jaw tightens.
“It was messy,” he admits, voice low but steady. “I was a wreck that night, and she was grieving too, and we leaned on each other in a way that didn’t look good from the outside. I should’ve stopped it before it even looked like something it wasn’t. Because it wasn’t, Tori.”
His eyes are pleading, earnest. “I swear I was not about to kiss her. I didn’t want her. Not then, not now, not ever again. Whatever we were, that ended a long time ago. We’re over. Truly over.”
I nod. “I know,” I whisper.
“But I should’ve known how it looked,” he continues.
“I should’ve thought about how it would feel for you to walk in on that.
But I wasn’t in my right mind. And that’s not an excuse, but it’s the truth.
And I hate that I wasn’t thinking straight, because the last thing I would ever do is hurt you like that.
Not on purpose. Not in any way that makes you question what you mean to me. ”
I swallow hard, keeping my voice even.
“You both just lost your father. You were comforting her. I can understand that.”
Looking down at my lap, I say, “It doesn’t mean it didn’t sting.”
He nods, slowly. “I know. And then the copy room—”
His eyes close for a second, like replaying it makes him flinch. “I was cruel. You went there to offer me comfort, and I… God… I just had to fuck everything up. You didn’t deserve that. You don’t deserve half the sharp edges I throw around when I get uncomfortable.”
“You mean when you feel vulnerable?” I say.
He nods. He knows.
His honesty pulls at me, and I hate how much I want to soften for him, how much I want to close the distance. But I don’t move.
“You’re right. I didn’t deserve it.”
Silence settles again, but it isn’t empty. It’s heavy with everything neither of us can undo.
Then he says, quietly, “I miss you.”
The words hit me in the chest.
Simple. Unadorned.
“I miss you too,” I admit, my voice softer than I intended.
“But missing you doesn’t erase the fact that I’m still married. That every time we cross that line, I wrestle with guilt that I can’t just switch off.”
I sit up a little straighter. I need him to know that what I’m about to say… I mean it. And I need him to respect this boundary, even when I, myself, don’t want to.
“My marriage is over, I know that in my bones, but until it’s final—until the ink is dry—it feels wrong to keep… doing this. Not the physical part.”
His shoulders lift with a breath, then drop. He doesn’t argue, doesn’t push. Just nods once, like he understands.
“Then we don’t. Not until the ink is dry.”
The relief that floods me is almost dizzying. Not because I don’t want him, but because I need him to be my friend right now. Not my lover. And he gets that. Truly, he does.
Then he smirks, tilting his head. “Still allowed to flirt, though, right?”
I roll my eyes, laughing out my response.
“Of course you’d ask that.”
He leans back, casual, though the gleam in his eyes is anything but.
“You know, if we were elements, you’d be oxygen.”
I arch a brow, unimpressed.
“Because every time you’re near, I forget how to breathe.”
I stare at him flatly. “Wrong subject.”
He throws up his hands, dramatic as ever. “There are only so many math innuendos, Tote!”
I turn slowly, deadpan.
“So the limit does exist? Thank God.”
His grin spreads, smug and boyish all at once. “Technically, it’s approaching infinity—but I’m a patient man. Also—did you just Mean Girls me?”
And just like that, everything is back to normal.
I laugh. I can’t help it.
“Oh my gosh, that’s my favorite movie.”
“Classic,” he declares, like the argument’s settled. “We should totally watch it.”
And we do.
Somehow, without either of us saying it out loud, we shift. I end up tucked against his side, his arm looped around me like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
He keeps tossing out one-liners, and I keep pretending I’m not amused, but he knows.
He always knows.
When he leans down, voice low and ridiculous, and says, “Are you going to start telling people I’m almost too gay to function?” I lose it completely. My laugh shakes against his chest, warm and unguarded.
For a moment, everything else fades—the grief, the divorce, the loneliness.
I’m happy. And for the first time in ten days, the hole in my chest—the GBF-shaped one—is filled to the brim.
Eventually, the credits roll and the late-afternoon light slants across the living room floor. Neither of us wants to move, but reality waits on the other side of the door.
Work tomorrow. People. Responsibility.
Leo exhales, reluctant. “I should go.”
I untangle myself from his side, then walk him to the door, every step a small tug in my chest. He pauses there, looking down at me, eyes soft in a way that makes me want to undo every boundary I just set.
Instead, he leans forward, pressing a kiss to my forehead—gentle, grounding, nothing more.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says.
It’s simple, but it feels like a promise.
When the door clicks shut behind him, the apartment is quiet again, but not empty.
Not anymore.