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I huff a breath—amused, tired, oddly relieved—and push the door open.
He’s seated at the edge of the bed, shirt sleeves rolled up, hands steepled between his knees like he’s meditating or plotting someone’s death. His eyes flick up to me, sharp as ever, then down to the six-pack.
“You brought bribes,” he says. “How thoughtful.”
“I brought beer,” I correct, stepping inside. “And maybe friendship. But mostly beer.”
He gestures lazily toward the nightstand, and I set the bottles down there, ignoring how his eyes track my every movement. Not like he wants me. But like he’s cataloging me. Assessing value, threat, motive.
“You don’t have to,” he says after a beat. “Whatever this is. You don’t have to do it.”
“I know.” I sit beside him, not too close. “I want to.”
He doesn’t respond. Just cracks open a bottle and drinks like it might tell him something the rest of us can’t.
I watch his throat move as he swallows, the way his fingers tighten slightly around the neck of the glass. Controlled. Measured. Like everything about him. But his eyes betray him—just a little. There’s a flicker of something rawer, more dangerous underneath.
“She shouldn’t have come,” I murmur.
He laughs. Just once. Bitter, quiet. “She always comes back. That’s the thing with people like Keira. They like to make you their unfinished business.”
“She hurt you.”
“And I let her.” He turns his head, looks at me full-on now. “You think I’m the victim in this? Sweetheart, I handed her the knife.”
“You’re allowed to be hurt.”
He studies me like I’m a puzzle with missing pieces. Then he says, voice low, almost too soft, “You’re not what I expected.”
“Good.”
Another sip of beer. Then, silence. But not an empty one. It’s weighted. A truce.
“Next time,” he says slowly, “bring tequila.”
“Next time, don’t let the ex wrap herself around your neck like a parasite.”
That earns me a smile. Barely there. But it softens the edge of him.
“Noted,” he murmurs. “But I can’t promise I won’t make things complicated.”
I lean back on my hands, stretch my legs out beside his. “I specialize in complicated.”
Ambrose doesn’t look at me. He drinks instead. Slow, like he’s savoring the way the alcohol scorches down his throat. Like maybe that heat is preferable to whatever’s sitting beneath his skin.
I reach for a bottle and crack it open, the hiss of the cap breaking the quiet. I don’t know what makes me say it. Maybe the way his jaw’s tight, locked like he’s still holding something in. Maybe it’s the way the weight of silence feels suddenly too full.
Or maybe it’s just that I get it. That hollow feeling you carry long after someone’s buried the knife in your spine and left you to rot around it.
“I had someone once,” I say, voice casual, but it costs me to keep it there. “An ex. Real charming type. Warm hands. Warmer lies.”
Ambrose shifts. A flick of his gaze, nothing more. But I have his attention now.
“I walked in on him. Two years ago. Him. Her. The couch I bought. The blanket I kept on it.”
I don’t let the bitterness coat my voice. Not because I’m past it, but because I won’t give it power. Not now.
“I didn’t scream,” I add. “Didn’t cry. Just left. Quiet. Like maybe if I didn’t make a sound, the humiliation wouldn’t echo so loud.”