Page 25 of Double Standards

“You have a copy,” she snaps, tone clipped.

I mutter something else, mostly to keep from saying what I really want to. Like how the sight of her makes my skin itch in ways I don’t understand. How I hate that she rattles me without even trying. It’s in the way she looks at me—calm, steady, like she sees too much. Like she’s not afraid.

And maybe that’s what fucks with me the most.

Most people shrink when I walk into a room. Cassie doesn’t. She lifts her chin, meets my gaze head-on, like she’s daring me to flinch first. And I should hate that. I should shut it down. But instead, it twists something in me—something sharp and primal. Something I don’t have words for.

So I keep my mouth shut. Because if I open it, I might say something reckless. Or worse, honest.

And honesty? That’s just as lethal as trust in my world.

The car rolls to a stop in front of her building, tires crunching over the uneven pavement. For a moment, neither of us moves. The silence stretches thin between us, heavy with everythingunsaid. Then, with a breath that sounds more like a sigh, she reaches for the handle, fingers curling around it like she’s bracing herself.

I catch the flicker of hesitation in her eyes reflected in the window. She doesn’t look at me. Just stares ahead, jaw tight, shoulders squared like armor.

“It’s locked,” I tell her flatly, already stepping out. I round the car and open her door.

She stares up at me as I hold my hand out for her, and for a second, I see the indecision flicker in her gaze. It’s quick, but it’s there—that moment of hesitation, like she’s weighing something bigger than just taking my hand. Like she’s wondering what it means if she does.

But then her fingers slip into mine. Like she’s not sure stepping out means safety or walking straight into something worse.

It’s a simple gesture, almost insignificant, but it punches the air from my lungs. Her hand is smaller than mine, cold from the wind, but steady. It feels right—strange, but right. Like we’re standing on the edge of something neither of us has a name for.

I guide her out, careful not to pull, just offering support. As soon as her heels hit the pavement and her feet are planted on solid ground, time seems to stall. Everything around us fades—the city noise, the traffic, the whole damn world.

I guide her out, not pulling, just offering my steady, silent support. The second her heels hit the pavement, something shifts. It’s like the city holds its breath. The screech of tires, the honk of a cab, the chaos of New York. It all dulls to a low hum. Just background noise. Everything narrows to this moment. Her feet on solid ground. My hand still on hers. And a silence that crackles like a live wire between us, heavy with everything we’re not saying.

My hand tightens around hers, not to hurt, just to remind. “Fuck me over…” I say again, voice like gravel. A warning she’ll feel long after she walks away from me.

“I heard you the first time,” she replies, eyes flicking away—too fast, like she’s afraid of what she might give away if she holds my gaze a second longer.

She lets go and walks to the entrance, shoulders stiff, and pace confident. She doesn’t look back.

Good.

Because if she did—if she turned around, even for a heartbeat—she might see the way my control fractures the second her back is to me. She might see the way my hand twitches at my side, desperate to grab her, to drag her back where I can see her, where I can own the space between us again.

Chapter Nine

As soon as the door closes behind me, I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath for hours. I don’t even have time to take a full step into the room before…

“You okay?”

I jump, startled by the sound of Cooper’s voice coming from the kitchen.

“Yeah.” I wince, trying to mask the way my nerves still hum under my skin. “Long day.”

He doesn’t ask more, just hands me a glass of wine, like we do this all the time. Like he’s still the person I want to come home to.

“Here.”

The moment I take it, I catch the smell. Garlic, rosemary, something sweet—vanilla maybe. My gaze sweeps over the dining table, and I freeze.

“What’s all this?” I whisper.

The table’s dressed like a scene from a rom-com. Containers filled with steaming food, plates neatly arranged; almost too perfect. Candles flicker in the center, their soft glow making the room look warmer than it’s felt in months. But what reallycatches me is the familiarity of it all. This isn’t Cooper’s doing. Cooper doesn’t cook.

And this spread, it’s from Olive & Thyme. The restaurant where we used to go when we still gave a shit about impressing each other. When we had time for one another. When we cared.