Page 21

I need to be alone.

Her words echo in my mind as I watch her disappear, each footstep taking her further from me. Every instinct screams at me to follow her, to make sure she's safe, to explain myself. But I force my feet to remain planted on the landing. She asked for space. I should respect that.

I'll give her five minutes.

Because the truth is, I can't give her that much space. Not tonight. Not after watching Byron's elbow connect with her face. Not after seeing the blood on her lip. Not after witnessing the pain in her eyes — pain I helped cause with my wounded pride and petty revenge.

My face throbs as I make my way out into the night. Each step sends fresh waves of pain through my ribs where Byron landed his most vicious blows. The metallic taste of blood lingers in my mouth, my split lip stinging in the cool evening air. But these physical discomforts are distant, secondary to the urgent need to find Saylor.

She won't go home immediately — she'll need time to collect herself first. But eventually, she'll return to her apartment, to Mina and Chloe and the safety they represent. That's where I need to be when she arrives.

When I finally arrive, my knuckles hesitate over the door. What if she's already here? What if she refuses to see me? What if this latest display of my worst qualities has finally convinced her I'm exactly who she always thought I was — arrogant, entitled, selfish, and not worth her time?

But the alternative — going home, crawling into bed, pretending tonight never happened — isn't an option. I need to see her. Need to know she's okay. Need to apologize for how I acted tonight.

I knock firmly, ignoring the pain that shoots through my bruised knuckles.

Mina answers, her expression shifting from annoyance to shock as she takes in my appearance. "Jesus Christ," she mutters, stepping back to let me in. "What happened to your face?"

"Is Saylor here?" I ask, ignoring her question as I scan the living room. The apartment is quiet, no sign of Saylor's presence.

"No," Mina says, crossing her arms. "She texted that she's on her way, though. Said something about needing ice cream and a shoulder." Her eyes narrow. "I'm guessing you know why."

I nod, moving toward the couch. "I'll wait for her."

"I didn't say you could—" Mina starts, but I've already settled onto the cushions, my body suddenly reminding me of every blow it absorbed tonight.

"Please," I say quietly. "I need to make sure she's okay."

Something in my voice or expression must convince her, because Mina sighs and walks to the kitchen. "Fine. But if she doesn't want you here, you're leaving. Immediately."

"Fair enough."

Mina returns with a bag of frozen peas wrapped in a dish towel. "For your face," she explains, handing it to me. "You look like hell."

"Thanks." I press the makeshift ice pack to my cheekbone, the cold numbing the worst of the pain. "Not all of it is from tonight. I've always had this face."

She doesn't laugh, just watches me with a guarded expression. She retreats to the kitchen, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the gentle hum of the refrigerator. Time stretches, minutes feeling like hours as I wait, the frozen peas gradually warming against my skin.

Finally, the door opens. Saylor steps inside, her movements weary but composed. Her lip is swollen, a small cut visible where Byron's elbow connected. The sight renews my anger, sends fresh adrenaline coursing through my veins. But more concerning is the slight blue tinge to her lips — she's been outside in the cold too long, without a proper coat.

Her eyes find me immediately, widening with surprise before narrowing in anger. "What are you doing here?" she demands, voice tight with controlled emotion. "Leave. Now."

I rise from the couch, the bag of now-thawed peas falling forgotten to the floor. "Saylor—"

"I only let him in because he seemed worried," Mina interjects from the kitchen doorway. "And he looks like he went ten rounds with a cement mixer."

Chloe appears in the hallway, drawn by the tension, her curious eyes moving between us.

Saylor's gaze sweeps over my battered face, a flicker of something — concern? satisfaction? — crossing her expression before hardening again. "Did you tell them what you did?" she asks, crossing her arms protectively over her chest.

"Tell us what?" Mina asks, moving closer.

"Go ahead," Saylor says, chin lifting in challenge. "Save me the breath. Tell my best friends what you did tonight."

I shrug, aiming for casual despite the way my heart hammers against my ribs. "Saylor texted me that she was hanging out with you two tonight," I explain to Mina and Chloe. "Then I went to Byron's and found her there instead."

Saylor shakes her head, eyes flashing. "That's not what I mean, asshole, and you know it. Tell them what happened."

"The curry Byron bought for her was shitty," I continue with deliberate casualness, though the memory sends fresh anger coursing through me. "Byron knocked it out of my hands and came at me. End of story."

"End of story?" Saylor repeats incredulously. She turns to her roommates. "He left out the part where he deliberately provoked Byron, taunted him, and acted like the most arrogant asshole on the planet."

"You forgot the part where Byron elbowed you in the face," I add, tilting my head to study her injury more carefully. "Which is why I'm here, by the way. To make sure you're okay."

"I cannot believe how immature you are," Saylor says, each word precise and cutting. "This isn't high school, Cade. You can't just storm into an A and B conversation and throw a tantrum because your feelings are hurt."

"You lied to me," I counter, my composure slipping. "What did you expect? That I'd find you having a cozy dinner with my best friend and just wave hello?"

"I didn't know you were still friends with him!" she shoots back, color rising in her cheeks. "You don't ever talk about him. You said you'd chosen me over him."

"Well, we certainly won't be friends after tonight," I mutter, running a hand through my hair in frustration. The movement sends fresh pain through my ribs, a sharp reminder of the physical toll this evening has taken.

Mina and Chloe watch our exchange with wide eyes, heads swiveling back and forth as if they're spectators at a particularly intense tennis match. Under different circumstances, their expressions might be comical.

"Look," I say, softening my tone, "I just wanted to make sure you were okay. Your lip…"

I step toward her, hand reaching instinctively to examine the injury. Saylor backs away, shaking her head.

"I'm fine," she insists, though the slight tremble in her voice betrays her. "I just need to clean up."

She turns and walks down the hallway toward the bathroom. Without conscious thought, I follow her, ignoring Mina's warning look. The bathroom door starts to close, but I catch it, stepping inside and shutting it behind me.

The small space feels even smaller with both of us inside, the air charged with unspoken emotions. Saylor stands before the mirror, examining her lip with careful fingers, pointedly ignoring my presence.

"Let me see," I say, moving closer.

"I can handle it myself."

"I know you can." I reach for her anyway, gently turning her face toward me with my fingertips beneath her chin. "But you don't have to."

She allows the contact, though tension radiates from every line of her body. Her lip is worse up close. It's swollen and split at the corner where Byron's elbow caught her. The sight renews my anger, tempered now with guilt for my role in causing this injury.

Before I can think better of it, I lean down and press the softest kiss to the corner of her mouth, just beside the cut. She inhales sharply but doesn't pull away.

"What are you doing?" she whispers, eyes wide and uncertain.

The question hangs in the air between us, simple yet monumental. What am I doing? Standing in this too-small bathroom, my body a constellation of pain points from Byron's fists, my heart hammering against my ribs like it's trying to escape? What compelled me to follow her here, to wait in her apartment despite knowing she might never want to see me again?

The truth crashes over me with terrifying clarity. When I walked into Byron's apartment and saw her there, something shifted inside me. Not just jealousy or wounded pride, though both were certainly present. It was fear — raw, primal, and all-consuming. Fear that I was losing her before I'd ever really had her. Fear that she'd choose Byron, choose the safer option, the known quantity, the path of least resistance.

In that moment, standing frozen in Byron's doorway, I realized I would rather take a hundred of his punches than lose her. Would rather burn every bridge, end every friendship, than give up whatever this is between us. The thought should terrify me. I've never been the guy who puts relationships first, who rearranges his life around another person. Yet here I am, blood drying on my split lip, having done exactly that.

What started as physical attraction has transformed into something I barely recognize, something that makes me want to be better, to reach for more, to shed the arrogant, entitled persona I've hidden behind for years. With her, I don't have to be the perfect student, the confident charmer, the guy with all the answers. I can just be Cade, messy and flawed and trying.

She sees through my bullshit. Calls me on it. Challenges me in ways no one else ever has. And somehow, inexplicably, she's still here despite witnessing the worst parts of me — my jealousy, my pettiness, my temper. Even tonight, after I embarrassed her, after I provoked a fight, after I made everything worse, she let me follow her into this bathroom. Let me touch her. Let me care for her.

The realization is both terrifying and liberating: I am completely, irrevocably in love with Saylor Anderson. Not the superficial infatuation I've felt before, not the possessive attachment I confused with deeper feelings. This is something else entirely, a bone-deep certainty that my life is better with her in it, even when everything else is falling apart.

If she sent me away right now, if she decided this mess we've created isn't worth the pain, I'd still be grateful for these weeks of knowing her — the real her, not the caricature I'd constructed over the past year of misunderstanding. I'd still fight for her, wait for her, hope for another chance.

Because knowing her has changed me in ways I'm only beginning to understand. Made me want to be worthy of her, made me face the uglier parts of myself I've spent years ignoring. Made me realize that true strength isn't about never showing weakness, but about being vulnerable enough to let someone see all of you — the good, the bad, the broken parts still healing.

I thought I was pursuing her, chasing what I couldn't have. But the truth is we work.

When she looked at me in Byron's apartment, with disappointment and hurt in her eyes, I knew I'd rather die than be the cause of that pain again. And when Byron's elbow connected with her face, when I saw the blood on her lip, something primitive and protective roared to life inside me — a certainty that I would do anything, endure anything, to keep her safe.

These aren't the idle thoughts of a college boy with a crush. They're the convictions of a man who's found someone worth fighting for. Worth changing for. Worth risking everything for.

"I'm sorry for how tonight went down," I tell her, my voice low and rough with emotion. "I'm sorry about your lip, the fight, all of it. But I'm not sorry for being in love with you, Saylor. I'm not sorry for fighting for what's mine."

The words hang in the air between us, a confession I hadn't planned to make but can't regret. Her eyes widen, lips parting in surprise, the bathroom suddenly so quiet I can hear each breath she takes.

"What did you just say?" she asks, voice barely audible.

"I said I'm in love with you," I repeat, the truth of it settling deep in my bones. "Completely, stupidly, head-over-heels crazy about you. Have been for a while now, probably longer than I even realized."

I kiss her injured lip again, the gentlest pressure. Then again. Each touch an apology, a promise, a question.

For a moment that stretches into eternity, she remains perfectly still. Then, with a small sound that might be surrender or acceptance or something else entirely, her arms wind around my neck, pulling me closer. Her lips meet mine, careful of the injuries we both bear, but unmistakably certain.

Relief floods through me, so powerful it nearly brings me to my knees. She may not have said the words back, may not be ready for that yet, but this kiss — tender despite our cuts, gentle despite the storm of emotions we've weathered — tells me everything I need to know.

She feels something for me too. Something real. Something worth fighting for, despite all the bullshit we just went through, the complications we've created.

She pulls back from the kiss with a small wince, her hand rising instinctively to her injured lip. The tiny flinch sends a wave of protective anger through me — not the hot, destructive rage from earlier, but something steadier, more focused.

"Let me take care of you," I say, cradling her face between my palms. "Please."

She hesitates, then nods, a nearly imperceptible movement against my hands. Permission granted.

I scan the bathroom, looking for supplies. "First aid kit?"

"Under the sink," she says softly.

I crouch down, ignoring the protest from my ribs, and rummage through the cabinet. The organized chaos of three women's bathroom supplies greets me — hairdryers, makeup bags, extra toilet paper, tampons, and finally, a white plastic box with a red cross.

A knock on the door interrupts my search. Saylor jumps slightly, color rising to her cheeks as she glances at the closed door.

"Say? Everything okay in there?" Mina's voice carries a mixture of concern and suspicion.

"Yes. Everything is fine," Saylor calls back, her eyes not leaving mine. "Just cleaning up."

A pause, then the sound of retreating footsteps — Mina and Chloe returning to their rooms or the living area, giving us privacy.

I locate an antibiotic ointment in the kit, along with a clean cotton swab. Standing, I move back to Saylor, who watches me with an unreadable expression.

"This might sting," I warn her.

"I've had worse." A shadow passes across her face, the events of the evening still too fresh, too raw.

Before applying the medicine, I lean in and press one more gentle kiss to the corner of her mouth, just beside the cut. A promise, an apology, a beginning.

"What was that for?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Because I wanted to," I answer simply. "And because it might be the last time tonight. This needs to stay on all night."

The ointment goes on easily, Saylor holding perfectly still as I dab it carefully on the cut. Her eyes never leave my face, studying me with an intensity that makes my heart race.

"You should ice it," I tell her, recapping the tube. "Help with the swelling."

"So should you," she counters, gesturing to my own battered face.

"I had something, but I dropped it when you came in. Hold on."

I slip out of the bathroom, returning to the living room where the bag of peas lies forgotten on the floor. Mina and Chloe are curled on opposite ends of the couch, pretending to watch something on the television though their attention shifts immediately to me.

I nod at them, a silent acknowledgment that things are…okay. Mina's expression remains suspicious, but Chloe offers a small smile, tentative but genuine.

Back in the hallway, I notice Saylor has moved to her bedroom. She sits on the edge of her bed.

"Here," I say, entering her room and pressing the peas gently to her lip. "It's not freezing cold anymore, so it should help."

"You need it more than I do," she says, taking the pack from me and holding it instead to my cheekbone, where the worst of Byron's punches landed. Her touch is featherlight, careful of the bruising.

The simple gesture undoes me. This woman who has every right to be furious with me, to throw me out of her apartment and her life, is instead tending to my injuries with the gentlest of touches.

"Lie down," I tell her, taking the ice pack back. "You've had a hell of a night."

To my surprise, she complies, scooting back on the bed until she's resting against the pillows. I settle beside her, careful not to crowd her space, and return the ice pack to her lip.

"I'm sorry," I say again, needing her to understand the depth of my regret. "For all of it. For taunting him, for losing my temper, for embarrassing you, for making everything worse."

"I lied," she reminds me, the words slightly muffled by the ice pack. "About what I was doing tonight."

"Yeah." I shift the pack slightly, checking the swelling. "But that doesn't excuse how I behaved. I was jealous and hurt and I lashed out."

She studies me for a long moment. "You meant what you said? In the bathroom?"

"Every word." No hesitation, no equivocation. Just truth.

"Why?" The question is so simple yet contains multitudes. Why me? Why now? Why after all this?

I take a long breath, watching her, staring into those beautiful brown eyes.

I mutter, "Well, you hated me with good reason. I didn't look twice at you because you were with Byron." I set the ice pack aside, needing both hands free to properly convey what I'm feeling. "But when I'm with you, everything just…fits. Even when we're fighting, even when everything is a complete disaster like tonight, being near you feels right in a way nothing else ever has."

She doesn't respond immediately, absorbing my words with the same careful consideration she gives everything. The silence should make me nervous, but it doesn't right now. We've moved beyond the need for constant reassurance, into something more honest, more real.

I stretch out next to her, careful of both our injuries, maintaining a small space between our bodies. She closes the gap, curling into my side, her head finding the hollow of my shoulder like it belongs there. I wrap my arm around her and breathe in the scent of her hair. Having her this close to me does something to my heart.

"Okay. So, what now?" she asks.

It's a fair question. One without easy answers. But as I lie here, holding her, feeling the steady rhythm of her breathing against me, I realize the path forward isn't as complicated as it seems.

"Now we do better," I say simply. "Let's be honest with each other, with everyone. We stop hiding. We deal with the consequences of the choices we've made, together. And we try our damnedest to be worthy of a real chance."

She settles back against me, a small sigh escaping her. "You make it sound so simple."

I chuckle. "Yeah," I acknowledge. "But I've got everything I need right here." I drop a kiss on the top of her head, inhaling the scent of her shampoo again, committing this moment to memory — the weight of her against me, the quiet of her room.

For the first time, I understand why Sandy was willing to risk everything for Hannah. Some connections transcend logic, defy explanation. They simply are, as inevitable and necessary as breathing.