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So you two worked it out?

I glance down at Whitley. She’s tucked into me like she was made for it, her face relaxed, lips slightly parted in sleep.

I type back one-handed.

Me:

Yeah. We did.

We haven’t defined a damn thing, though. No labels. No long talks about what this is. But last night didn’t feel casual. None of this does.

My phone buzzes again.

Rowan:

About damn time. Violet says Whitley bought some fancy dress for that award thing. You going?

Me:

Already said I would.

Three dots appear.

Rowan:

What did she brainwash you with?

A snort escapes me before I can stop it, and Whitley shifts in her sleep, burrowing closer and muttering something that sounds suspiciously like “nachos.”

It would take a goddamn miracle to pull away from her right now. Good things don’t tend to stick around in my life. And for the most part, I've made peace with that. But I’m starting to realize I could spend the rest of my life looking for something that feels like this if I let her go.

I’m almost finished up with Whitley’s car at my garage when I catch multiple missed call notifications on my phone. All from my mother.

My stomach knots.

I wipe my hands on a rag, grease still clinging to my fingers, and stare at the screen. Four calls in a row. One voicemail. All within the last hour.

Never a good sign.

I hesitate before hitting play, bracing myself. The message starts with silence. Then shallow breathing. A shaky inhale. Something rustles in the background, maybe a TV. Maybe she’s pacing. Then⁠—

A quiet, broken sob comes through the speaker.

And the line goes dead.

That familiar pressure I’ve lived with most of my life clamps down on my chest.

I sit down on the workbench, phone still in my hand. My brain’s already running disaster drills. Did she forget her meds again? Did the power get shut off? Did she just get overwhelmed and needed someone to hear her fall apart?

It could be anything.

I drag a hand down my face. I need to call her back. It just sucks that this is happening when I’m still riding the tail end of the high I’ve been on all day. This morning comes rushing back in vivid detail.

Whitley’s pressed up against the tile, water streaming down her body, those hazel eyes looking up at me through wet lashes.

The way she dropped to her knees without me even asking tells me all I need to know—that she's it for me.

Her mouth is so goddamn perfect. Warm and eager, taking me deeper with every stroke until I grasp at the shower wall with one hand, her hair wrapped in my other one.