Chapter 4
I might be hallucinating, but five nights—five damn nights—his music has been bleeding through the ceiling like some phantom haunting me.
Five nights of me lying there, wide awake, listening and recalling all our memories. Better than the alternative, I guess because yesterday? I had a very inappropriate dream. I think it was my first one ever.
Ben's mouth on mine, his body pinning me down. We didn't get to the deed—ironic as our reality was—but I woke up tangled in sheets, wet all the way to my ankles. And the worst part was that Richard was up, because apparently, I mumbled.
He's used to me talking, or sometimes crying out in my sleep, but last night he seemed more suspicious than worried.
I couldn't bring myself to ask what he'd heard, only begged the universe that I wasn't speaking from sleep.
So now I'm in the gym. 5 a.m.
If the rooftop pool were finally fixed, I'd be in it, submerged, weightless and maybe without any guilt for a second. Instead, I'm punishing myself in the heat on the treadmill.
Then the elevator opens, and Ben walks in.
My heart stops. Then sprints faster than after an hour of cardio.
He doesn't notice me—yawning, hair a mess—as he heads straight to the weights in black sweats, a grey tee pulled tight across his chest.
He's always been a dark mood board. Casual and athletic cuts that fit him too well to look juvenile.
More like someone who belongs on fire escapes and in diners at 2 a.m. His silver watch is the only thing that catches light—a gift from his father when he was thirteen.
I remember him saying he worked out six months to earn the wrist it deserved.
Not sure if he meant it as a joke but I thought it was impressive.
Three years. Three years I haven't seen him...
I slow the treadmill just to get a better glimpse. He's still jacked, V-shaped, broad shoulders narrowing to a slim waist, muscles defined like he's some Renaissance sculptor's fantasy.
He's moving to whatever's in his ears—90's hip hop, I'd bet my life on it.
I watch his chest rise and fall. Don't get how his breathing never wavers.
He tried to teach me several times but it was impossible to focus on my diaphragm when his hands clutched my chest.
Ben controls every inhale. Every exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Damn, I think he controls all of mine too.
I need to leave. Now. Unfortunately for me, though, the elevator is past him.
So I ease off and pretend I'm wiping my face with the towel, only to hide it.
Perfect plan, apart from the fact I can barely see, so my foot knocks the edge of some shelf with a protein powder, and the noise echoes, even under my headphones.
Ben snaps his head my way and squints, like he's unsure if the crazy girl running before dawn is actually me. Then—a smile. He mouths my name and crosses the room, saying something else I can't catch.
I freeze, staring at him approaching. "What?"
He rolls his eyes when he reaches me and his fingers brush on my temples, plucking my headphones down to my neck.
"No good morning neighbor?"
I blink. Should I remind him that he has no right touching me like this? I should.
But his voice has that morning mix of rough velvet that makes me think of him in sheets and I'm kind of caught on it.
"Good morning," I say finally, wiping sweat for real this time, hoping he doesn't notice how red I am—which, yeah, fat chance—but anyway. "I didn't want to... break your focus."
"Focus. Right. That's nice of you." He nods, eyes giving away he's unconvinced.
Then he frowns and tilts his head toward my headphones, almost pressing it on my chest.
"You're listening to 'Glory Box'?" he teases like he can hear all my dirty thoughts. "In the gym?"
I jump back, jab "stop" on my phone and glare at him. "Yeah. It's on shuffle."
Right. On repeat.
I prick my ear to deflect and catch the faint echo from his. "Montel Jordan?"
"Yeah." He stops his music and I crack a tiny smile at the little internal victory because I know him so well. It makes me loosen up a little, and try for casual.
"Why do you work out so early?"
He yawns in his hand and rubs his jaw. "Good time to chill."
"Chill?" I echo sarcastically. Give him a look. "Who goes to gym to chill? Weirdo."
"Someone who works eighteen hours a day. Random hours," he exhales, and crouches to gather the spilled containers I left behind. "You? Why so early? Trying to avoid people?"
"Yeah. It's generally empty till seven."
"Did I ruin your plan?"
"You could say that."
"Sorry, not sorry," he says and I pull a face at him. "Still not a people-person?"
"Yeah. Still prefer the conversations in my head," I admit nonchalantly.
"You know, talking to people can tame that madness," he teases, caught up reading the backside sticker on one of the protein powders.
I should go help him but I'm stuck—watching his forearms flex, pumped from the workout so the veins stand out like cords under his skin.
My mouth goes dry. God, it's just his hands, and here I am, recalling that dream, picturing them gripping my thighs, pressing me against the wall until I forget how to stand before someone walks in on us.
Jesus. Enough with the twisted fantasies, Emma.
I clear my throat. "That's debatable."
He looks up, eyebrows raised, processing both my words and whatever energy is radiating off me, but I'm already retreating to the shelf, fiddling with it while it's completely slanted.
"Thanks for your help. You can go back to your workout," I mutter, trying to fix it, but actually make it worse—touch the wrong spot and the rest of the containers tumble out.
He catches them in his long hands, like he's been waiting for me to screw up again, and laughs under his breath.
"Not much has changed. You're still a hazard in cute human form," he says and sets the containers down carefully.
I glare, but it doesn't land, because he's too freaking calm.
He brushes dust off his palms, and straightens in front of me like a tower. Then he nods his chin at me. "And you're still doing that."
I frown. "Doing what?"
His eyes drop to my mouth, lingering there. "Biting your lip when you don't want to feel something."
So I bite it harder, of course. My teeth sink in just as I swivel away toward the shelf, the elevator button, anything to save me from being entirely exposed.
No. I can't wait here and feel him watching my every move. Screw the elevator.
"I'll go down the stairs," I say, already edging toward the door. "Finish the workout out there. You have a nice day."
His mouth curves as he waves at me faintly. "You too, Emma. See you around."
A harmless polite answer. Except it doesn't feel like that at all.
I bolt, feet pounding the stairwell, thumbs flying over my phone to Lucy.
Which I shouldn't because knowing me, I could very well trip and somehow land forty floors down, but I have to text her now.
She will make me laugh or scream or both. I need that. I need sanity.
Me: Ben's here. Moved into the building. Is this what you meant by my Saturn return? Because Saturn can take him the hell back. Can't breathe
Her reply is instant.
Lucy: Breathe into a paper bag and get your ass over here
?
An hour later, I'm on Lu's doorstep—hair unwashed, covered in a hoodie, and still mildly panicked.
The door swings open and there is my Lu—five feet of her Korean beauty in a paint-streaked robe, smirk already in place.
"You look like you've seen a ghost." She pulls me in, smelling of gesso and the caramel she's chewing. "Or worse. An ex."
That's Lu. Queen of the deadpan. Sultry in a robe or even in sweatpants.
I practically stumble inside my old apartment, pre-Richard, straight to the kitchen that's unrecognizable.
Massive paintings are stacked against every wall, plastic covering the floors, even the kitchen counter and fridge. Which makes sense since Lu lives on candy and peanut butter anyway.
One of the walls has turned into a mural of thousands of red butterflies erupting from a cave mouth, some animals, some feminist symbols. Pretty epic.
She hands me a steaming mug. "Your favorite. Cherry."
I narrow my eyes on the print. "Seriously?" It's a freaking Empire State Building.
"It was the only one washed." She shrugs, trying to look beliveable.
I raise a brow. "You have a collection of five hundred mugs and this is the only one washed?"
"Okay." She throws her hands up, simpering. "This one was the only one waiting for you."
I groan and slump onto the secondhand sofa under the window—the one I love so much even though we nearly died hauling it up three sets of stairs—and dump it all on her.
"Ben is back. He's in San Francisco. He's supposed to be in New York. Not here. Not in San Francisco. Not anywhere near me—"
"Your chaos is delicious," she interrupts, pulling a chair to sit across me, "but sip your tea before you combust. Why is he back?"
"That's what I'm trying to tell you." I gesture wildly. "I don't know. Can't get past two sentences with him. That, and breaking a shelf which he helped me to fix."
Lu bites her cheek, scratching the dry paint on her hand. "He knows you. Knows you're a hurricane."
I roll my eyes. "Remind me why I come to you for advice?"
"Because I'm honest," she says flatly. "I'm still piecing the mirror you broke like a midnight puzzle when I can't sleep."
She backs off slightly on the chair the second she notices me stabbing her with my eyes. "Anyway. Why is he in the same building though?"
"Exactly." I lean forward. "Why?"
"You think he did that on purpose? Because of you?"
"He mocked me the first day we met, said he didn't."
"Doesn't mean that couldn't be true."
"Yeah, but here is the thing—he lives one floor above me. I can hear his music at night. What kind of sick joke is that?"
Her brows shoot up. "Damn. It's weird how you two keep spiraling around each other. You guys must be twin flames."
I make a face at that idea. I believe in stars and sure, I'm a hopeless romantic, but that's a little far-fetched.