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QUINN

I’m in Lang’s office before class, front row, grading papers on the tiny tablet desk and half listening as she rattles on about some new writing contest she thinks I should enter.

“The Blackthorn Prize is highly coveted,” she tells me. “Big-name judges. Good prize money. And it’s right up your alley. A little darker and gutsier than the usual lit mag fluff.”

I make a noncommittal noise and keep my eyes on the essay in front of me. Something darker and gutsier . Sounds like me, sure. But the thought of putting my work out there like that again makes my stomach knot up.

It’s one thing to write because I have to. To bleed out onto the page before it festers inside of me. It’s another thing entirely to hold my work up in front of people and then wait for them to tell me if it’s any good.

“Quinn,” Lang presses, planting her coffee on the desk. “Seriously. You should do it.”

I set my pen down and lean back in my chair. “It costs money to submit, doesn’t it?”

“I think the early bird deadline is sometime in late October,” she says. “You’ll have to check into the details.”

“Details,” I echo.

I’ve been careful about money lately. The TA position pays enough to keep me afloat, and I’ve been trying to stash most of it away. Same with what I earned in the last month of summer. My savings took a serious hit before that.

I’d been traveling alone, worn thin from too many weeks on the move. Met a girl in a hostel. She was sweet, young, wide-eyed in a way that made me want to believe her. I let my guard down for once. Told myself to stop being the suspicious girl who never lets anyone get close.

She was gone the next morning. So was the rest of my money.

Lang grins. “This would be a great resume builder. And you have a real shot at placing.”

And maybe I do. I want to believe I do.

After I stole from Daniel, lost Warren, and the contest to boot, I let myself believe in some kind of karmic balance. Like when I lost, I was paying my price. I didn’t enter another contest after that. For a long time, I didn’t think I deserved to.

But now, things are good again, and it feels like something’s finally realigned. Maybe I’ve done the work, and maybe that matters. Maybe I can let myself want something without thinking I have to pay for it afterward.

“I’ll think about it,” I say.

Lang looks pleased. “Good. Any gems in the pile there?”

I wince and stare down at my stack of essays, red pen poised and ready. This group of students isn’t the most inventive, but we’re still early in the semester. Maybe they just need time to surprise me.

“One or two,” I say. “Though I’m not holding my breath.”

There are about ten minutes left until class begins. The room is filling slowly, students dragging their feet as they shuffle to their seats. I keep my head down, still flipping through the stack, when Warren walks in.

I feel him before I see him. That quiet, steady presence of his, like gravity shifting slightly in his direction. He doesn’t say anything, just makes his way down the aisle, his fingers brushing my desk as he passes. Something small and folded slips beneath my elbow.

When he’s seated at the back of the room, I unfold the paper, curious but not surprised. A crooked smile tugs at my mouth before I can stop it.

I’m terrified by this dark thing

That sleeps in Quinn;

All day I feel her restless turnings,

Her sharp edges and quiet claws.

I bite down a laugh and tuck the note into my pocket. A warped rendition of Plath’s Elm. Claws instead of feathers, my name dropped in like a dare.

It’s a nod to something old, something ours. Back at Sycamore, he used to mess with me, rattling off lines half-wrong and half-serious, rewriting classics in a way that was equal parts poetry and provocation. But there was one night, after hours in the pool, where he recited them quite perfectly.

A Dickinson poem that didn’t like performance, but like confession.

“For Occupation—This

The spreading wide my narrow Hands

To gather Paradise.”

He spoke slowly, carefully. He knew exactly what he was doing, and I knew, too.

It was before we’d even kissed, before the idea of him and me and us was anything more than a fairy tale. Some dream I’d only ever dared to imagine in the quietest corners of my mind.

But after that night, he kept up with the lines. He’d whisper them in my ear when no one was around. Shoot them across the break room when we were meant to be folding towels or cleaning up.

When we got to Dayton, he started writing them down, too. Scribbled notes tucked in my pockets, slipped between the pages of my textbooks. Little reminders, like breadcrumbs leading me back to him.

Now, Lang’s voice pulls me back to the front of the room. I shift in my seat, the paper crinkling in my pocket. When I stand and head to the front of the class, I glance behind me.

Warren watches, calm and steady, like he’s waiting to see if I’ll smile at him.

And I do. Of course I do.

* * *

The next night, I’m at Emberline again. Three times a week now, sometimes more if I can swing it. I haven’t been reading or writing as much, but I tell myself the trade-off is worth it. The way my body feels stronger, steadier, like I’m gaining something solid after years of feeling a bit frayed.

It’s easier to push myself now, too. To drown out whatever’s still rattling around in my head with the sound of my fists hitting the bag. Easier to burn off the tension instead of letting it knot up inside me.

I’ve already made a mental note to shut down any unnecessary flirting or touching from Gage’s end. Even if I find it harmless, Warren doesn’t, and I want to respect that.

But when I step into the gym, Gage isn’t here. No sharp smile, no easy swagger as he circles the floor, running drills. I pace by the heavy bags, scanning the room once, then again. He said he’d see me Tuesday night. I know I didn’t imagine that.

Still, the floor is quiet. No sign of him.

So, I tape my hands and get to work, running through my warm-ups alone. I hit each rep harder than usual, moving faster, longer, sharper. Sweat gathers at the base of my neck and trickles down my spine, but I keep going. I’m not finished yet.

I keep going until my arms burn and my chest aches, until the frustration starts to bleed out of me. It’s cathartic, I guess, but it’s also exhausting in a way that feels more emotional than physical.

“You alright?”

I blink up to find Marcus watching me from the side. He’s got his towel slung over one shoulder, hands braced on his hips.

“Fine,” I say, breathless.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” I shake out my arms and tighten the tape around my wrist. “Hey, you know when Gage is working next?”

“He’s not.”

I frown. “Why?”

“Fired him just yesterday,” Marcus responds. “Caught him skimming money off me. Tried to lie and say it wasn’t him, but I had two witnesses.”

A sharp, familiar pang cuts through me, like a tug behind my ribs. It’s not anger, not exactly. There’s something colder threaded through it—disappointment, maybe.

When I was robbed this summer, I was gutted. At first, I felt violated, exposed. But after that? I just felt tired. Because anger never lasts forever. Eventually, it burns out, and you’re left with whatever’s underneath.

For me, it was the hollow ache of knowing I should’ve seen it coming. That deep down, I probably did. I know how these things unravel. How they start with excuses and end in damage.

Of course, I know what stealing feels like. I know the rush of it, the warped logic that tells you it’s survival, not betrayal. But more than that, I know the aftermath. The shame. The part where you can’t look anyone in the eye without wondering what they see when they look back at you.

That doesn’t mean it’s right. It doesn’t mean it doesn’t leave a mark.

But it would be hypocritical to sit here and act like I’m above Gage. Like I haven’t been there myself. Like I don’t know what it’s like to convince yourself you’re justified. To believe no one’s really getting hurt. To think you’re owed something just for surviving the grind.

I strip off my tape, tossing it into the trash, then lean against the wall.

“That really fucking sucks.”

Marcus exhales through his nose. “Yeah. It does.”

“How much did he take?”

“Couple grand,” he says, sounding more disappointed than angry. “Kid was working his way up there, too. I had him on track for more hours. Could’ve taken over some of my morning clients. What a bullshit way to ruin a good thing.”

“Yeah,” I murmur. “Bullshit.”

He pats my shoulder. “He’s got no one to blame but himself.”

I gather my things, feeling heavy in my own skin. Tired, achy, and hollow in a way that has nothing to do with muscle fatigue.

The walk from Emberline to my apartment is quiet. Slower than usual, my boots scuffing against the pavement as I try to shake the weight off and fail.

Upstairs, I unlock the door, kick off my shoes, and drop my bag just inside. I don’t bother with the lights. The living room is still, faintly lit by the streetlamp outside. I sink onto the couch, muscles tight, mind tighter.

Warren wanted me to check in, so I pull out my phone.

Quinn

just walking up to my apartment now. safe and sound

Warren

thanks for checking in. how was the gym?

Quinn

weird, kind of. Gage got fired

My phone starts ringing, and I answer on the second buzz.

“Yeah?”

“Tell me it didn’t have anything to do with you. He didn’t put his hands on you or—”

“Calm down, Mr. Vigilante. The owner caught him stealing, that’s all.”

“Oh.” He exhales, the tension draining from his voice. “Ah.”

“Ah is right.”

The silence that follows is thick and unsure, stretched out between us like something neither of us wants to name.

I shift, curling my free hand into the edge of the couch cushion. “Warren,” I say carefully, “do you ever think there’s some part of us that’s just ... stuck?”

“Stuck?”

“Like we’re waiting for the next thing to go wrong.” I hesitate, pressing my fingers to my temple. “Or worse—like we’re the ones who screw it up ourselves. And even if you try to fix it, even if you’ve done everything you can to atone ... sometimes it feels like it doesn’t matter. Like your life’s still off-kilter somehow, like you’ll never quite get it back on track. And you’re just waiting for the next bad thing to hit.”

“I know what you mean, but no, Quinn,” he says firmly. “That’s not you. I know you’re good. You’re a good person, and good things are meant to happen to you.”

I smile, but it’s faint and doesn’t quite stick. “I wasn’t just talking about myself.”

“Quinny,” he says softly, like he knows I’m lying.

“Fine,” I murmur. “I kinda was. Thank you for the reassurance, though.”

“Anytime.”

“Good night, baby.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to talk more?”

“Yeah,” I say, rubbing my eyes. “I just need to pass out in bed and forget I’m a person for a while. I’ll see you in class tomorrow.”

“Alright,” he says quietly. “Good night, then.”

I hang up, feeling that familiar hollow space open inside me again. I know I’ll wake up tomorrow and fill it with something else—work, school, the gym. More soft, steady check-ins from Warren. Small things that keep me anchored when I start to drift.

It’s not perfect. Some days, those old feelings creep back in. The way my parents used to diminish me without even trying. I had to work hard to be noticed and even harder to be valued. I spent so long chasing their approval that now, I don’t always know how to let myself be cared for. How to let myself be fully seen. Half the time, I’m not even sure I want to be.

But at least I know I’m not alone, and that’s what keeps me steady. Because I have Warren, I have Wesley, and they see me—really see me—for exactly who I am.