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QUINN

I don’t do shared living, bonding with roommates. Not in the way most people do.

I have them, technically. Two of them—Alyssa and Jordan. They were looking for a third during their sophomore year, and after a few polite interviews and one awkward group dinner, we decided to stick it out for the rest of college.

It’s a mutual arrangement. One that works because I keep my space, and they keep theirs.

They’re nice enough. Alyssa’s pre-law, Jordan’s on the club volleyball team. They study together at the kitchen table, swap mascara before going out, huddle up on the couch with their matching fuzzy blankets to binge-watch reality TV.

I exist adjacent to all of that.

I don’t borrow clothes. I don’t sit in on study sessions. I don’t braid anyone’s hair while dissecting the finer points of the latest love triangle on The Bachelor . But when they need me—really need me—I show up.

Last fall, when Jordan’s long-distance boyfriend dumped her over FaceTime? I handed her my best bottle of whiskey, let her sob into my sweatshirt, and helped her torch the hoodie he’d left at our place.

When Alyssa bombed her mock trial and spent three days convinced she’d never get into law school? I left a bottle of wine and a brutally annotated copy of her argument on her desk with one note: This sucked. Try again.

I’m not warm. I’m not cuddly. But I’m loyal. And I suppose that counts for something.

“Where the hell have you been? Back from traveling for three days and already off the grid?”

Alyssa’s sprawled on the couch when I walk in, laptop open, case notes scattered across the coffee table. She peers over her screen, arching a brow.

“Just been at work,” I say, kicking off my shoes.

“At Sycamore?” Jordan chimes in, stepping out of the kitchen with a protein shake. “Thought you weren’t going back this summer.”

Yeah, well. Plans change.

“Figured I might as well squeeze tips out of men who either think I’m their daughter reincarnated or want to fuck me. And sometimes, in a really gross way, both .”

Jordan nearly chokes. “Ew. Though, at least the icky rich old men will tip you just for breathing. That’s the dream.”

Breathing? More like constant pandering coupled with the opportunity to leer at my tits. And while I do have a great set of them, it’d be nice if a man could make eye contact before pretending to care about my thoughts on market trends.

Besides, the tips are rarely generous unless I flirt like I mean it. And even then, they still hand me fives like they’re doing me a favor.

Alyssa grins, stretching her arms over her head. “Please tell me you’re still stringing them along with the business major thing.”

“Obviously.”

She laughs and shakes her head. “I swear, one day, some guy is gonna ask about your portfolio, and you’re gonna have to admit you don’t actually know what a mutual fund is.”

“Oh, please,” I say, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge. “The day a man at Sycamore asks me a serious question about business is the day I retire.”

They laugh because they know I’m right. The guys who come to the club aren’t interested in actual conversations. They want someone who nods at the right moments, laughs at their bad jokes, and lets them think they’re more important than they are.

It’s easier this way. People love what they can recognize.

A girl studying business? She’s smart. Savvy. Marketable. Sexier because she’s ambitious.

A girl studying English literature? She’s useless in their minds.

So, I let them think I’m one thing when I’m another. It’s not just a harmless lie; it’s survival.

Alyssa shakes her head, amused, and turns back to her laptop. Jordan plops onto the couch beside her, flipping through a magazine.

I take my water to my room and quietly kick the door shut behind me. The solitude is instant, familiar, easy. It’s a good thing I like being alone. I always have. It’s sort of peaceful in a hollow, echoing way.

I drop onto my bed and let my head tip back against the wall, the quiet settling over me like a second skin. My desk is a mess. Books are stacked in uneven piles, loose papers with half-written annotations, my laptop open to a creative writing project I abandoned three days ago.

Still, I love stories. I always have. I love the way they work, the way people reveal themselves in fiction without realizing it. The way words can be used as both a weapon and a shield.

But I don’t talk about it. Not because I’m embarrassed—just because it doesn’t fit the version of myself I give people.

When I was younger and my parents’ attention narrowed in on my little brother—when their concern, their energy, their love seemed to orbit only him—I had stories. I had magical worlds and classic poetry. I had historical romance and gothic heartbreak. I had characters who felt like they existed solely for me. Who listened when no one else did.

I stretch and grab my notebook, flipping to the dog-eared page where I left off. Drown out the world. Get lost in someone else’s.

Four weeks. That’s all I need. Four weeks of working, reading, keeping my head down. Then the summer will be over, and my ex-boyfriend will be nothing more than a memory again.

* * *

Monday morning comes too soon, too hot, too much like déjà vu.

The air is already stifling by 9:00 a.m., the kind of heat that clings to your skin and makes your clothes feel like a punishment. Somewhere in the distance, a golf cart whirs to life, tires crackling over gravel like a slow reminder that summer doesn’t care how tired you are.

Everything moves in a haze. Lazy swings. Half-hearted conversations. The lull of another long, sun-bleached morning at Sycamore.

I avoided the pool deck today. Skipped the break room. Didn’t even glance at the storage closet. But that avoidance has an expiration date, and I know it. Eventually, he’ll be somewhere I can’t sidestep. Eventually turns out to be now.

I’m halfway through my first shift when Warren walks past the gate.

Same uniform. Same almost-black hair, still damp from an early swim. Same broad, carved-out back as he moves past the cabanas with a towel slung over one shoulder, muscles shifting like they’re built to be looked at.

Of course, I notice. Of course, I look. And it makes my pulse stutter in that way I hate. My grip tightens on the scorecard in my hand.

Mad. That’s what I am.

Mad that he’s here. Mad that I still react. Mad that it still gets under my skin, no matter how many times I’ve told myself it won’t.

I drag my eyes away and force a breath out, trying to shake it. He’s just a guy. A coworker. Interchangeable. Forgettable.

But that’s a lie, and I know it.

Warren Mercer isn’t just a guy. He’s the boy who knew every corner of me, the only one who ever really understood how I worked. He was the sharpest mirror I ever stood in front of—and now, all he sees when he looks at me is the girl who broke his trust.

And maybe that’s all I deserve.

I refocus my attention, shift my bag higher on my shoulder, and tune in to the conversation happening between my golfers.

“. . . if you’re not playing to win, you’re just donating money,” Beckett is saying, adjusting his grip on his club. “Last time I played with Mark, he lost six grand on a bet because he thought he could outdrive me.”

“Some of us play for the sport, not the wallet,” Graham replies, lining up his shot.

Beckett snorts. “You say that now, but the second you lose a couple grand to me, you’ll be rethinking your stance.”

I barely suppress an eye roll. Different day, same conversation.

I shift my weight, already overheated, my water bottle half-drained, my chest tight in the way that means I need to slow down, regulate my breathing, take a damn break. But I don’t have time for that.

I force another sip of water, nod when one of the guys makes some offhanded comment in my direction, and keep moving, even though my pulse feels a little too quick, and I’m a little too light-headed.

By the time we reach the turn, the heat is oppressive, a thick, smothering weight pressing against my ribs. My fingers tingle. My chest feels like it’s full of cotton.

Shit . I need my inhaler.

I tell my group I’ll meet them at the next tee, then duck off the path, cutting through the maintenance lot toward the club’s storage shed. It’s shaded here, away from the worst of the heat, the air marginally cooler beneath the awning.

I sit up on the wooden storage table, bracing myself as I dig through my bag with shaky fingers.

One puff. Hold. Two. Deep breath in. Hold. Exhale.

The relief is slow but steady, the tightness in my chest loosening with every controlled inhale. My vision sharpens. My pulse evens out. I close my eyes for a second, focusing on my breath, grounding myself in the quiet hum of cicadas, the muffled sounds of golfers in the distance, the low, familiar rasp of—

“You good?”

My eyes snap open.

Zane—one of the younger pool attendants, all easy charm and too much curiosity—is standing a few feet away, arms crossed, head tilted.

I straighten quickly, clearing my throat. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

His gaze flicks to the inhaler in my hand. “Didn’t know you had asthma.”

“I don’t exactly advertise it,” I mutter, shoving it back into my bag.

He studies me for a second, then takes a step closer and props one hand against the table beside me. He’s tall—not Warren tall, but close enough to feel a little too confident about it.

“You should pace yourself,” he says, teasing. “Can’t have you dropping on the back nine. One of the regulars might think it’s their heart giving out.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m fine.”

He grins and reaches out, fingertips brushing lightly against my elbow, like he’s about to nudge me or say something else—

“Zane. Shift change.”

My stomach knots instantly.

We both glance toward the door, where Warren stands, arms crossed, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp. Watching. Measuring. Deciding.

My face burns.

His gaze moves slowly between me and Zane, assessing the scene like he’s already made up his mind. Like he’s sure of exactly what he’s seeing whether it’s true or not.

Zane, ever oblivious, just smirks. “Hey, Mercer. I’ll be right there—just finishing up.”

Warren doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t even blink. He tips his head slightly, eyes fixed on me now. “If thirty seconds is all you need, by all means. Finish up.”

His tone is smooth, but there’s something razor-edged beneath it.

I straighten, bracing myself. “Don’t be such a dick.”

He lifts a brow and finally flicks his gaze toward Zane. “I’m not the one getting handsy in the equipment shed.”

“We weren’t doing anything,” I snap.

Zane laughs, like this is all a joke to him, like he’s enjoying the show. “Guess I’ll see you around, Quinn.”

I don’t answer, just keep my eyes locked on Warren until Zane disappears.

Warren steps forward. Not much—just enough. Enough that I have to tilt my chin up to meet his eyes. Enough that the space between us feels too small. Too familiar.

“You’re real quick to defend yourself.” His gaze drops to my mouth, then back to my eyes. “Why’s that?”

I huff. “For someone so committed to avoiding me, you sure love to stick around.”

Warren smirks.

Not just any smirk—a knowing one. The kind that says he sees right through me. That he knows exactly how much this is getting under my skin. That no matter how hard I try to act unaffected, he can still spot the truth in my eyes.

Then, just like that, he steps back. Calm. Controlled. Like he didn’t just invade every inch of my personal space and leave me reeling.

He shakes his head once and walks off without another word. Somehow, that pisses me off more than anything else.

By the time I make it back to my group, the tightness in my chest has eased, but the frustration lingers, buzzing under my skin like static. Thankfully, the rest of the round passes by without incident. I move on autopilot—haul the clubs, smile when expected, nod at conversations I’m not really listening to.

But my thoughts won’t let go.

They circle, restless, dragging me right back to the look in Warren’s eyes. The tension in his voice. The edge in the way he said my name. He says he doesn’t care, says I don’t matter, but something slipped through the cracks just there.

A flicker. A fracture of feeling.

And for a girl who’s spent the last two years trying not to feel anything at all, that’s dangerous.