Page 38

38

QUINN

Warren’s room is calmer than mine. No chaotic piles of books, no scattered notes threatening to avalanche at any moment. That’s why I’m here now, trying to work instead of getting buried in my own mess.

My papers are spread in loose clusters across his desk, and my laptop blinks at me from the corner like it’s waiting for me to get my act together. The coffee I brought over more than an hour ago sits untouched by the window, long gone cold.

I’m slumped in his desk chair, chin resting in my hand, pen tapping an uneven rhythm against my notebook. Every so often, I manage to write a word, stare at it like it betrayed me, then scratch it out until the page looks worse than when I started.

“You know,” Warren says lazily from his bed, one arm thrown over his head as he scrolls his phone. “You could just submit that one about the train.”

I exhale sharply, flick my pen across the page once more, and toss it aside. “I’m not submitting that one.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s depressing as hell, for one.”

“That’s what makes it good,” he argues. “I mean, your main character dies at the end, and it still felt . .. strangely hopeful. Bittersweet, at the very least.”

“Right,” I say dryly. “Totally what the judges are looking for.”

“You’re just overthinking it.” He rolls off his bed, crossing the room until he’s standing behind my chair. “You put too much pressure on yourself.”

“I just want it to be good.”

“It is good.” His hands settle on my shoulders, his thumbs brushing along the curve of my neck. “You’re not the same writer you were when you lost that first contest.”

I let out a breathy laugh. “Wow. Thanks for the reminder.”

He squeezes my shoulders. “I’m serious. You are better now. Besides, you had bad luck last time. Or karmic intervention. I mean, you were up against some kid who wrote about ... what was it again?”

“Her mom’s garden.” I huff. “The whole thing was a metaphor for grief. And the pacing was perfect. And her sentences—God, Warren, they made me want to quit writing altogether.”

“Yeah, well,” he says lightly, “she probably peaked in middle school.”

I snort. “I can’t believe you’re talking shit about a little girl.”

“I’m just saying, I know a thing or two about burning bright too early. Junior champ and all.”

“You did not burn out. You still have your best years ahead of you.”

He grins and drops a kiss to the side of my head.

I hum softly, letting my eyes close for a second. His hands are still on my shoulders, warmth soaking through the fabric of my shirt. The tension that’s been riding my muscles all morning finally starts to ease.

“You have to submit something ,” Warren says quietly.

“I don’t know.”

“I do.”

“What if I lose again?”

“Then you lose again.” He steps around the chair until he’s facing me. “But at least you’ll know you tried.”

I study him for a second, my eyes narrowing. He’s serious. No teasing grin, no smart remark. Just Warren looking at me like I’m capable of more than I believe I am. Like I’m someone worth betting on.

“I’ll think about it,” I say finally.

“Mmm-hmm.”

His gaze flicks up toward the shelf above my head, and something shifts in his face—barely a flicker, but I catch it.

Curious, I turn and reach for the book he’s looking at. It’s thick, the cover soft with wear and the corners bent in just enough to suggest it’s been read again and again. The spine is cracked and sun-faded, the title stamped in silver foil worn down to a soft shimmer: Selected Poems of Emily Dickinson.

Something about it stops me. Not just the poet, though obviously, I know her well. It’s the book itself. I’ve seen this exact copy before. Propped in the corner of his desk. Page-side down beside his glove box. Once, half tucked into his gym bag, the edge of a dog-eared page peeking out.

“Hey,” Warren says quickly, stepping closer. “Don’t—”

I flip it open, skimming past the table of contents. The pages are worn, too, corners bent, almost every poem marked up with underlines and notes in that sharp, slanted handwriting of his. Some are so full of scribbled comments I can barely make out the text.

“You . . . you’ve actually been studying this? Like, full-on annotating?”

He snatches the book from my hands. “Don’t make a thing of it.”

“Warren, baby,” I say softly, still staring at the pages. “You didn’t just search up these quotes. You memorized them. You . . . you did all this for me?”

His fingers flex. “I just wanted to get it right,” he mutters.

And he did. He got it right every single time. Not just the words but the feeling. The delivery. He always knew when I needed to hear those lines—when I needed to be reminded that hope was a thing with feathers or that paradise could fit inside my palm.

He always knew when to soften his voice, when to make me laugh. And I thought it was just instinct. Thought he was winging it, that he just had some uncanny sense of what I needed.

But no. He worked for it. He cared enough to sit down with this book, to underline the parts that made him think of me, to scribble thoughts in the margins like he was trying to crack some impossible code.

He’s always been like that. Steady. Deliberate. Always thinking two steps ahead. Even when I was too stubborn or scared to see it.

God, I love him. I love him so much I can’t even breathe for a second.

I step forward and press my mouth to his, soft and slow. He kisses me back, his arm curling tight around my waist, hand curling into my hair. When we break apart, I can still feel his breath against my lips.

“Okay, I’ll submit something for the contest,” I tell him. “If you do something brave for me, too.”

“You mean like visiting my dad at Oakview after he embarrassed the shit out of me?” he deadpans. “Shouted incoherent nonsense at a meet in front of my entire team, our rivals, and my coach.”

I laugh because I know he’s half joking. But I also know he’s right. That is brave.

We’re heading to Oakview in an hour, and Warren’s been quietly gearing up for it all day, bracing for whatever version of his dad is waiting on the other side of that visit. And that’s more than just brave—it’s generous. It’s gutsy. It’s Warren.

“Something else,” I say. “Something more for me.”

“You want me to come train at Emberline?”

“Ugh, no.” I wrinkle my nose. “Boxing’s my thing, and you wouldn’t be any good at it anyway.”

I’ve grown to love it there. The rhythm, the focus it demands. Emberline has become part of my routine in a way I never saw coming. It’s one of the only places that quiets my mind. No noise, no spiraling thoughts—just me, the bag, the next punch, the next step.

I never pictured myself as the kind of person who enjoys sweating through drills or pushing past exhaustion, but here I am. I’ve gotten stronger. I feel stronger. And after everything, that matters more than I can explain.

When Gage got fired, it rattled things for a bit. Sometimes I still wonder what happened to him. If he found a new gym, if he’s still running his mouth somewhere. But not enough to go looking.

Marcus has stepped in here and there, offering advice when he can. He’s got his hands full running the place, so most days, I’m on my own. Just me, figuring it out, getting better bit by bit.

And honestly, I like it that way. I like knowing this space is mine. Something I’ve built that grounds me. Not for anyone else’s approval, not for attention, just for me.

“You want me to track down Gage?”

I glance up, surprised. Despite his jealousy, his misplaced distaste, he’s offering to help anyway. That feels generous in a way I didn’t expect. But more than that, it feels like trust. Like he’s trying—really trying—to show me he believes in what we have.

“You’d do that? I thought you didn’t like him.”

He shrugs. “I don’t. But I know he was helping you.”

“That’s oddly sweet, but no.” I spin around, planting my hands on my hips. “And enough with the guessing games. My actual proposal is that you get a tattoo, and I want to pick it out for you.”

“Oh God, what are you thinking?” he asks dryly. “A butterfly on my lower back?”

“As hot as you’d look with a tramp stamp, I was actually thinking about something more basic. Like ... a quote.” I trace the skin of his forearm, just above his wrist. “How about, ‘ I dwell in Possibility. ’”

“Done,” he says. Not even a second of hesitation. “I’ll get the tattoo if you submit for the contest.”

“Wait ... seriously?”

“Seriously.”

Something flutters low in my chest—shock, maybe, but something warmer, too. I didn’t expect him to agree so fast, but God, I think I’m a little giddy about it.

A tattoo would mean something lasting. Something permanent. Something that ties him to me forever in this quiet, certain way.

“Deal,” I say, smiling against his mouth as he kisses me again.

* * *

The parking lot at Oakview is mostly empty, just a few scattered cars and a woman pacing by the entrance, her phone pressed tightly to her ear.

Warren parks at the far end, engine idling much longer than necessary. He taps his fingers on the steering wheel, staring straight ahead. I can feel the tension rolling off him. It’s not sharp and restless like usual but heavier. Quieter.

They told him his dad was still irritated but starting to settle again. Apparently, it takes time for him to float back down to earth after a binge. The staff wasn’t sure how he’d gotten his hands on anything—alcohol, maybe something stronger—but once he left the facility, it was out of their control.

He must’ve slipped past them during quiet hours, ducked by the front desk when no one was watching closely enough. According to Warren, he’s always been good at finding his way through the cracks.

When they called to say his dad was back in their care, Warren didn’t ask for details. He didn’t press for answers. He just listened, then let the phone drop to the mattress beside him and stared at the ceiling like he was waiting for something else to drop.

He figured his dad had relapsed. But when the staff ran tests, they didn’t find anything in his system. No drugs, anyway. Just alcohol, exhaustion, and a string of impulsive choices that spiraled faster than anyone could catch.

“I can go in alone,” he says finally, voice low. “If you want to wait out here.”

I reach across the console to find his hand. “Nope, I’m coming in with you.”

He exhales, eyes still on the building. “I don’t know how this is gonna go.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m still coming with you.”

He finally looks at me, and I don’t know what he sees, but something in his expression shifts. Strengthens a little. His fingers tighten a little more, his shoulders pull back.

“Okay,” he murmurs.

We step out of the car and cross the lot together. Warren’s hand stays in mine, his grip never faltering, and I match his pace. The doors slide open for us. Inside, the air is stale and cold.

We pause just past the entryway and wait. I squeeze his hand once. He squeezes back.

He’s learned to lean on me, to trust that I won’t let go when things get hard. And I’ve learned to lean back, to trust him just the same. We’re not perfect, but we’re better now. We know how to stay when things get messy, and we know how to savor it when things are good.

“I’m right here,” I whisper.

“I know,” Warren says.

And then we step forward, hand in hand, into whatever comes next.