Chapter Two
I should have chosen her a long time ago.
Or at least been brave enough to tell her the truth.
That’s the thought pounding through my head as I unlock Lena’s apartment door using the passcode I memorized years ago—back when borrowing sugar turned into movie nights and unspoken promises.
She told me she was fine.
But I’ve known Lena long enough to hear the lies she tells herself.
The vacuum roars across the living room, back and forth over the same spotless patch of carpet like she’s trying to erase the entire night. Her coat hangs halfway off one shoulder, forgotten. Her hair has escaped its bun completely—strands sticking out in every direction, messy and wild and painfully her.
This isn’t the woman who lights up rooms.
This is someone barely holding herself together.
My hands curl into fists.
If pain were transferable, I’d take every ounce of hers. I’d carry it. I’d drown in it if it meant she didn’t have to.
But life doesn’t work that way.
She switches off the vacuum abruptly, then pivots toward the bookshelf like she’s on a mission, rearranging books that don’t need touching. One stack wobbles.
I cross the room in three strides.
One hand steadies her shoulder.
The other catches the books just before they fall.
“Lena. Stop.”
She freezes.
Her shoulder is warm beneath my palm. Her breathing is fast, uneven. For half a second, it would be so easy—just pull her closer. Just hold her.
I should have told her years ago.
That it’s always been her.
That she’s never been unlovable.
But I didn’t.
Because responsibility means thinking ahead.
Because my father drilled consequences into my skull before handing me the gym keys.
Because disappointing people feels worse than staying silent.
And because there was the pact.
No dating. No crossing lines. Ever.
So I stayed safe.
Stayed steady.
Stayed quiet.
I step behind her and gently slide her coat off. She’s smaller than she realizes, fragile in a way that makes my chest ache.
She laughs—a fake, brittle sound. “Cleaning helps me think. Don’t judge.”
“I’m not judging.” My voice is firm. “I’m worried.”
She reaches for another book. I catch her hand before she can knock anything else over.
My fingers linger longer than they should.
I lean down, just enough to meet her eyes. “You’re my priority tonight.”
Her eyes widen. The golden flecks in them catch the light—but they’re dimmer now, cracked.
It makes something dark coil in my chest.
I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out a slightly crushed paper bag.
“Emergency supplies.”
Inside is a strawberry-glazed mochi donut.
Her favorite.
Her hands close around it like it’s something sacred. She takes a bite—and her composure crumbles.
“I always liked this one,” she whispers.
Tears spill, but she keeps eating, cheeks puffed out as she chews through heartbreak like it might dissolve if she finishes fast enough.
I pull her into my arms.
She fits there. Perfectly.
“I don’t understand what I did wrong,” she says, voice muffled against my chest.
“You didn’t,” I murmur. “You never do.”
She pulls back, eyes red. “I supported him. Believed in him. The one time I said no—about using my clients—he acted like I betrayed him.”
“You protected yourself,” I say, jaw tight. “That’s not a flaw.”
Her voice breaks. “Everyone leaves me eventually. Maybe I’m the problem.”
That hurts worse than anything Evan did.
I cup her face, forcing her to look at me.
“You are not the problem.”
She lets out a shaky laugh. “That’s not what he thought.”
“He doesn’t think,” I snap. “At all.”
That earns a real laugh—small, but real.
“What’s my type then?” she asks quietly.
I swallow the truth.
“Someone who never makes you question your worth.”
I step back and flick the vacuum on. “Now—cleaning competition. I’ll destroy you.”
Her brow arches. “Is that a challenge, Hale?”
“Only if you’re scared.”
She cracks her knuckles. “You’re going down.”
Laughter fills the apartment. Not healed—but breathing.
In her bedroom, my eye catches a bright pink paperback on the nightstand.
She lunges for it instantly. “Book club!”
Her face is crimson.
I bite back a grin.
Later, she pulls out a memory box. Photos. Laughter. Twenty years of us.
“We’re still neighbors,” she says softly. “Still best friends.”
“And idiots,” I think. “At least one of us.”
Then she finds it.
A folded, faded paper.
I grab it before she can hide it.
Lena’s Love Bucket List
Her voice cracks. “It’s stupid. I’ve failed too many times.”
I tuck the paper into my pocket and step closer, lowering my voice.
“Then let’s stop calling it a failure.”
Her breath stutters.
“We’ll do it together.”
She gasps. “Give that back!”
She reaches for my pocket—and for the first time, I don’t step away.
