I press my palm against my chest, willing my heartbeat to slow the fuck down. It doesn't listen. The adrenaline rush leaves me light-headed, my skin prickling with cold sweat.
"Get it together," I whisper to myself, shoving my phone into my pocket and pulling my jacket tighter around me. "He's gone. Ian took care of it."
I start walking again, faster now, hyper-aware of every shadow, every footstep, every car that passes too slowly. My apartment is only six blocks away, but it suddenly feels like miles.
A car horn blares behind me, and I nearly jump out of my skin. Just someone being an asshole in traffic. Normal city noise. Nothing to do with me.
But what if Theo is still out there? What if Theo is just waiting for the right moment to?—
Stop it.
I force myself to breathe. In through my nose, out through my mouth. Slow and steady, the way my therapist taught me when the panic attacks were at their worst after Mom died.
This isn't then. I'm not that scared, helpless girl anymore.
I lean against a lamppost, my eyes scanning the street, the sidewalk, the faces of everyone who passes. Looking for threats. Looking for him.
But Theo isn't here.
The chill in the air finally pushes me to move. My legs feel heavy, like they belong to someone else, but I force myself towalk. One block. Then another. I keep my head down, arms wrapped tight around myself, every shadow stretching too long, every footstep behind me making my pulse race.
By the time I reach my building, my fingers are numb and my jaw aches from clenching it. But I’m home. The locks click into place behind me, and only then do I let out a shaky breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
I strip off my coat, kick off my shoes, and change quickly before I head straight for the couch. It’s not much, but it’s mine. My little nest of mismatched blankets and scattered textbooks waits for me like a half-built fortress. I crawl in and surround myself with the only things I can control—notes, flashcards, highlighters—and try to lose myself in studying.
If I’m focused, I don’t have to feel.
The knock at my door is sharp, insistent. Three raps, then silence. Not the hesitant pattern of a neighbor or the cheerful cadence of a delivery driver. This is someone who expects to be let in.
I ignore it, burrowing deeper into my nest of blankets and textbooks. The apartment is too quiet without the bass thrum of Rhapsody's music, too still without the neon glow of the stage lights. I've spent too many nights in my own head lately, and the silence is deafening.
The knock comes again, louder this time. Followed by a voice that sends a jolt through my body.
"Claire. Open the door."
Ian.
I sit up abruptly, my heart hammering against my ribs. He's never been here before. Never crossed the threshold from my work life to my real one. The two have always been separate, compartmentalized, the walls between them necessary for survival.
Another knock, sharper this time. "Claire."
I swing my legs out of bed, wincing as my feet hit the cold floor. The apartment is a mess—textbooks everywhere, clothes strewn across every surface, dishes piled in the sink. Not the kind of place you invite someone in. Especially not someone like Ian.
But he's already seen me at my most vulnerable. Already touched parts of me no one else has. What's a little mess compared to that?
I pad to the door, my bare feet silent on the worn carpet. I pause with my hand on the knob, suddenly aware of how little I'm wearing. Just a thin tank top and shorts, my hair a tangled mess from days without proper washing.
Too late to hide now.
I open the door.
Ian stands there, filling the doorway with his presence. He's in dark jeans and a black t-shirt that stretches across his chest, a leather jacket draped over one arm. His eyes scan me quickly, taking in my disheveled state, before settling on my face.
"You haven't been to work," he says.
I shrug, trying for nonchalance I don't feel. "Needed a break."
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "You haven't been back since the night in my office."
