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QUINN

There’s a knock at my door. Three short raps, then silence.

I hesitate for half a second, my pulse picking up. Warren. He said seven, but it’s six thirty on the dot. Being on time isn’t unusual for him, but showing up early? That’s not exactly his thing. Not unless something’s weighing on him.

I wipe my hands on my sweatpants and head down the hall, pausing to double-check my reflection in the mirror by the entryway. Hair’s good. Shirt’s clean. Mostly. I straighten out my collar, then smooth a wrinkle near the hem.

When I open the door, Warren’s standing there with his hands in his pockets. His shoulders are tense, weight shifted like he’s not sure if he’s supposed to smile or apologize for showing up at all. His hair’s damp, curling slightly at the ends, and he smells like crisp, piney shampoo.

He rushed to get here, I think, and that’s kind of adorable.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “I know I’m early. I showered after practice and figured . . . I don’t know. I just didn’t feel like sitting around at home.”

“Hey,” I echo, leaning against the frame. “No worries. I wasn’t busy.”

I want to let him in and pretend that nothing’s weird. That this is normal. But things are still a little uncertain.

We’ve had sex. We’ve kissed. We’ve shared space again. A few quiet moments that felt comfortable in a way they probably shouldn’t have. Yet, we haven’t had the real talk yet. The messy part. The part that either clears the air or burns everything down.

“So,” I say, clearing my throat. “First time here, huh?”

I step back to let him inside, and he hesitates—just briefly—before crossing the threshold. Like he’s still not sure what version of us he’s walking into.

“Yeah.” He glances around like he’s taking mental notes. “It’s . . . nice.”

He grins, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. It’s not that he’s uncomfortable, or at least not obviously so, but we’re both still trying to figure out what this is. Where we stand. What we’re supposed to be now.

“You wanna sit?”

“Yeah.” He nods once and then lowers himself onto the far end of the couch.

I sit, too, tucking my legs beneath me, and for a second, I can’t think of a single thing to say. That’s not the norm for me. I’m usually rife with snark or softness when it comes to him.

“When did you move out of the dorms?” he asks suddenly.

I jolt a little. “Right after freshman year. Jordan and Alyssa were looking for a third to split costs, and it just kind of worked out.”

His eyebrows lift. “Huh. Seems like something I should’ve known.”

I smile—small, tight. “There’s a two-year gap in your memory.”

His face twitches, just a flicker of something behind his eyes, and I regret saying it that way. It’s not a jab at my own choices or his absence, not really. It’s just true.

“Right,” he says quietly.

I pick at a loose thread on the hem of my sleeve, twisting it between my fingers. “They’re good girls,” I offer, filling the silence. “I like them. I just . . .” I trail off, my fingers stilling.

“You haven’t really let them in,” he finishes.

I glance up, surprised—but I shouldn’t be. Of course he’d read me like that. He always could. Warren doesn’t ask unless he already knows the answer. He sees through me like the glass isn’t even there.

“Yeah,” I say softly. “I haven’t.”

He nods, not judging, just listening. His fingers tug on the drawstrings of his sweatshirt, like he’s working up to something. I shift, curling tighter into the corner of the couch, trying to keep my voice light, even though my chest feels anything but.

“It’s just easier that way, I guess.”

“Yeah,” he says again, this time with the smallest tug of a smile. “I know the feeling. You should try, though. Give things a chance.”

I snort, trying to shake off the weight of it. “Like you try with your cousin?”

His mouth twitches. “We watched the Bobcats game together last weekend.”

“And you said it was weird.”

“Yeah, well,” he mutters. “Liam’s weird.”

“You’re weird.”

“I know.”

I laugh, and suddenly, everything feels easier, like we’re slipping back into something familiar. I can sleep with Warren. Kiss him. Tease him. Flirt with him. But this casual talk about our lives, about our days, it’s a new sort of game. One I’m learning to play.

“Hey,” he says after a beat. “I’ve got a mock meet tomorrow. Was gonna swing by Sycamore before to grab my last paycheck. You want me to pick yours up, too?”

“Oh.” I blink, thrown off-balance. “Yeah, that’d be great.”

“Cool.”

He said that like it’s nothing to him. Like this—being here, doing something small and considerate for me—is normal again.

I’d forgotten this part about Warren. How thoughtful he could be without making a big deal of it. How he’d pick up the slack before I even realized there was slack to pick up.

When I was sick, he’d grab my assignments without me asking. When I got a flat tire on my bike, he patched it up before I’d even noticed. When I spent days wallowing in my room after a shitty voicemail from my parents, Warren showed up with greasy fries and a six-pack and never asked why I wasn’t leaving my bed.

He just . . . handled things.

And now, he’s back to doing that. Back to taking care of me, even when I’m not sure I deserve it. For all intents and purposes, it seems he’s forgiven me. Maybe even trusts me again. But I can’t seem to extend that same grace to myself.

“This feels strange,” I blurt. “Us, I mean.”

“Strange how?”

I shift in my seat. “Like . . . I don’t know.” I shake my head, frustrated with myself. “Are we just pretending everything’s normal now? Like nothing happened? Like we didn’t break each other and then pretend the cracks weren’t still showing.”

He leans back against the couch, stretching one arm across the back of it. It’s like he’s giving me space but still wants to be close. Like he’s listening without trying to fix it.

“Does it feel normal to you?”

“No,” I admit. “But I don’t know what it’s supposed to feel like.”

His gaze softens, and for a second, I can’t look at him. Because this is Warren— my Warren—and I’m still not sure what he sees when he looks at me now. If he’s still angry. If he still resents me.

Am I still his Quinn? Or am I the girl who stole from him that he can’t help but miss anyway?

“I didn’t . . .” I swallow hard, my voice quieter now. “God, Warren, I didn’t ruin your life, did I?”

His breath leaves him in a rush—half sigh, half laugh—and when I finally meet his eyes, there’s something softer there. Less sharp, less guarded. Like an ember that’s been smoldering all this time, just waiting for air.

“No,” he says, and his hand finds my knee, curling there like it belongs. “You sure as hell haunted me, but you didn’t ruin me.”

I blink hard. “I still feel like I should be apologizing every five minutes.”

“You don’t have to.” His fingers squeeze gently. “I mean, yeah, you pissed me off. Broke my heart a little.” He smiles wryly, like he’s teasing, but there’s an edge of truth there too. “But if I was still pissed at you, I wouldn’t be here.”

“Yeah,” I murmur, swallowing past the lump in my throat. “I guess that makes sense.”

“C’mere.”

He tugs on my knee. I shift closer, and suddenly, his arm is around me, pulling me into his side. His body is warm, solid. Familiar in a way that makes my breath catch. This time, when he holds me, it’s not about sex, or regret, or overthinking everything we’ve done wrong. It’s just him, us , the steady rhythm of his heart against my ear.

“I missed this,” I whisper. “You holding me like this.”

He stills, his breath catching against my skin.

I know I’m usually prickly Quinn, guarded Quinn. The girl who keeps people at arm’s length because it’s easier than letting them see the parts of me I don’t know how to explain. But with Warren, I can soften. Let my guard down without it feeling like a risk.

With him, I never had to explain. He just got it. Got me.

The bridge of his nose presses against my temple, dragging slowly and absently, like muscle memory. Like his body remembers even if his mind is still catching up. It’s like he’s trying to memorize everything—the way I smell, the way I feel, the way I settle against him.

“Yeah,” he says, low and strained. “Me too.”

* * *

Warren went home late last night. We didn’t have sex. Didn’t even kiss after that first lingering one on the couch. We just talked—filled each other in on the last two years—until my words started to slur and my eyes grew heavy.

I barely remember him easing me deeper into the cushions, pulling a blanket over me before he let himself out. I woke up warm and comfortable, like my bones remembered what it was like to feel safe.

Jordan and Alyssa must’ve gotten home sometime after that. Hours later, from the sound of it. I heard them giggling in the hallway, keys jingling as they fumbled to unlock the door. I don’t know how they do it, balancing endless social plans and still dragging themselves out of bed in time for brunch.

They’re always going, always busy. Partying, networking, filling their calendar with more events than I’d ever have the stamina for. I swear they thrive on it. I can barely manage one night out without feeling like I need a day to recover.

Now, it’s the next morning—well, technically early afternoon—and I’m at a corner table at the Bluebell with Jordan and Alyssa, staring down a mimosa I haven’t touched yet. The table’s cluttered with half-eaten plates of avocado toast and french toast sticks, syrup dribbling down the side of a bowl.

Jordan’s on her third round of boozy orange juice, talking a mile a minute. Alyssa’s sipping hers slower, half listening as she scrolls through her phone.

I’d almost bailed when they knocked on my door this morning. My hair was all wet from the shower, a towel wrapped around my head. I didn’t want to face the small talk, the forced laughter, the effort it takes to be around people when I’m not sure I belong.

But then I remembered what Warren said. You should try. Give things a chance.

So here I am. Trying.

Jordan’s telling some wild story about a guy she met last weekend. Some bartender at Lucky’s who supposedly did a backflip off the bar and landed it, completely hammered. She’s miming the whole thing, arms flailing as she half stands from her chair.

“And then,” she says between laughs, “he popped up like nothing happened and started pouring shots for everyone. I swear to God.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I say because I can’t think of anything else.

“It was,” Alyssa says, finally looking up from her phone. “But she left out the part where she went home with him.”

Jordan gasps, smacking Alyssa’s arm. “Excuse you! That’s irrelevant.”

“You let him make you a grilled cheese at two in the morning,” Alyssa adds, grinning.

“And it was a damn good grilled cheese,” Jordan says with a shrug, tossing back the rest of her mimosa like she’s proud of it.

I genuinely laugh, surprising myself. “So ... a gymnast and a chef? The full package.”

Jordan beams at me. “You get it.”

I snort and finally take a slow sip of my mimosa. “I didn’t know you were into the showy type.”

“I’m into the fun type,” Jordan says.

“And the red flag type,” Alyssa deadpans, reaching for her drink.

Jordan cackles at that, and I smile, too. I can’t help it. This—the casual jokes, the warmth of easy conversation—it’s just nice.

“At least it’s better than the year I tried dating musicians.”

Alyssa groans. “Oh God, we were just eighteen and absolutely feral.”

“What happened?” I ask.

Jordan props her chin on her hand, sighing dramatically. “Let’s just say I learned three things that year. One, never trust a man with a guitar. Two, ‘I’m working on new material’ means he wants to sleep with your roommate. And three, if a guy tells you he’s ‘emotionally unavailable,’ believe him.”

“Yikes,” I say, wincing.

“You’re telling me.” Jordan tips her glass toward me. “This is why I’m a bartender-only kind of girl now.”

“Better career stability,” I murmur.

“Exactly.”

We fall into another round of laughter, and I feel strangely present in a way I haven’t felt with them before. I’m not hovering on the edges of something. Not guarding myself in case they decide I’m not worth the effort.

I’m just here, being a girl.

Alyssa tilts her head. “So, what’s going on with you, Quinn? You’ve been different lately. Is it the boxing? We knew you’d like punching things.”

“That helps, yeah. But I guess there’s a little more to it than that.”

Jordan waggles her brows. “Is it a boy?”

I blink. “What makes you think that?”

“Oh my God, it is!” Jordan gasps. “Who is he?”

“No one,” I lie automatically. “I mean ... not no one . Just ...”

“You’re blushing,” Alyssa points out.

I groan and cover my face with both hands. “I hate this.”

“Is he hot?” Jordan presses.

“I’m not answering that.”

“Oh my God, he is,” she crows, clapping her hands. “I knew it. Quinn’s finally got herself a man.”

“He’s not—I mean . . . he’s just my ex, and we’ve been figuring things out,” I stammer. “It’s complicated.”

“Please, do go on,” Alyssa urges.

I hesitate, unsure how much I want to put into words. How do you explain Warren Mercer? The boy who once knew me better than anyone. Who saw through every wall I built and made me feel understood in a way no one else ever has.

And now? He’s the one I’m still trying to rebuild something with, piece by careful piece.

“It’s just a bit messy,” I say finally. “But I think it’s good. I think ... I don’t know.” I exhale slowly. “I really want it to be good.”

Jordan’s smile softens. “Sounds like you’ve got it bad.”

“Yeah, I guess I do.”

And weirdly? That doesn’t scare me as much as it should.

By the time the check comes, I’m still smiling. A real smile, the kind that lingers even when no one’s paying attention. I’m glad I came out with them. Glad Warren told me to try. If this is what letting people in feels like, I think I could learn to like it.