We groan, halfheartedly protest that we’re fine, but he disappears into the kitchen anyway and returns minutes later with a tray like some kind of responsible adult.
And, of course, we devour every last crumb.
Eventually, Jack helps us both up, his steady hands keeping us from toppling over when our legs threaten to give out beneath us. He’s completely unbothered—this is just what he does, slipping into the role of caretaker like it’s second nature. There’s no exasperation, no teasing, just quiet patience.
I lean into him slightly as we shuffle toward the bedroom, my body feeling light, almost weightless, like I’m floating instead of walking. The wine hums in my veins, turning everything hazy and warm.
I blink hard, the world tilting just slightly, and suddenly, a thought wedges itself into my mind, unexpected and unwelcome.
I wish I had someone who felt that sure, who showed up, stayed, and made love feel effortless instead of fleeting.
But every time I try for something real, I end up with men who only want something superficial. A quick fling. A casual thing that’s thrilling in the moment but leaves me feeling hollow once it’s over.
Maybe that’s all I’ve ever really wanted, too.
But… I don’t know. Lately, it feels like something’s missing, like I’m outgrowing the version of myself that was always fine with keeping things casual.
Before I can fully process that thought, Quinn leans over and presses a sloppy, affectionate kiss to my forehead as Jack tucks us both into their bed. My limbs are heavy, my mind is swimming, but I catch the last thing I need to see before sleep takes me—Jack brushing Quinn’s hair behind her ear, kissing her softly, like it’s instinct, like he couldn’t not do it even if he tried.
He looks at her with a tenderness I don’t have words for, and for a moment, his wedding band glints in the low light, catching my eye like a quiet promise.
Something inside me pulls tight.
Yeah… I could be okay with having that.
“Goodnight, Kruz,” Quinn murmurs, her voice already slipping into sleep.
I let the darkness take me under, my mind fuzzy, my heart feeling full and empty all at once.
2
IT’S ALWAYS A FUCKING MAN
KRUZ
My knees slaminto the sidewalk with a brutal force, jolting up my spine and making my teeth clack together so hard it feels like they might crack. The rough concrete bites through my tights with ease, the fabric giving way as the skin beneath rips open. A searing pain flares through my legs, raw and immediate, like fire licking at an open wound.
You’d think after slipping on ice three times this season alone, I’d finally wise up and invest in better shoes. But the truth is, I have no clue what kind of footwear would actually prevent that. Traction? Special soles? Some kind of magic anti-slip technology? No idea. So, instead of figuring it out like a responsible adult, I stick with what I know—cute over practical. And, as expected, my own vanity continues to be my downfall.
It’s almost midnight, and I’m still three blocks away from my apartment, cursing every life decision that led me to this moment. The cold seeps through my torn tights as I glance up at the familiar mustard-yellow letters on the glass door I pass every morning on my way to work: Sylas Financial Solutions, Ray Sylas, CPA.
Ray really needs to salt his damn sidewalk.
Gritting my teeth, I groan and attempt to push myself up, but the movement sends a sharp sting through my hands. Blood smears against my palms, tiny shards of gravel embedded in the raw skin, a painful souvenir from my ill-advised attempt at winter fitness.
Because let’s be honest—fitness has never been my passion. Walking an extra few blocks every day might be tolerable in the crisp air of autumn, but in the dead of winter? It’s just a disaster waiting to happen. And, well… Here I am.
I’m still exhausted, days after Christmas, as if the holiday itself siphoned the last remnants of energy from my body. Break was supposed to be a reprieve, a chance to breathe after the chaos of finals, but somehow, being home was even more draining. My family, in true form, treated the season like a full-scale production—obnoxiously extravagant decorations, multi-course meals that required a military-level operation, traditions stacked so high they felt suffocating. I tried to keep up, really, I did. But with every passing second, I could feel myself wilting, shrinking into the background like an ornament no one remembered hanging up.
And even when I was physically there, I wasn’t reallythere.
Ezra lingered in my head the entire time, slipping into every quiet moment like a ghost that refused to be exorcised. Uninvited, unshakable—always there.
I’d be halfway through wrapping presents, fingers tangled in ribbons and tape, when it would hit me—the way his voice softened when he said my name. Just like that, I’d be somewhere else entirely, lost in the memory, the present in my hands suddenly forgotten.
Or I’d be sitting at the dinner table, tuning out the overlapping voices, the clinking silverware, the usual chaos of family chatter. My mind would drift, slipping away from the noise, back to the way he looked at me the last time we were together. The unspoken something in his eyes, the way it settled deep inside me. An ache I didn’t know what to do with.
Well, not thelasttime we were together.
