Page 66 of Seven Lost Summers (Broken Oasis #3)

Quinn

T

he

first

knock

nearly

folds into the background.

This apartment’s always humming with its own kind of chaos—the fridge rattling before it kicks in with a low growl, the fan coughing in its corner, the sirens bleeding through the thin glass and sinking into the walls.

The floorboards creak when the neighbours upstairs stomp around, probably arguing again, but I’ve learned to stop hearing it.

Then comes the second knock.

Heavier.

Then softer, a second rhythm chasing the first. One confident, one almost tentative.

I remain still, camera in hand.

Nobody comes here.

That’s not me being dramatic, that’s a fact. My phone barely rings unless someone’s chasing up an order from my website, and even then it’s almost always an email because no one bothers with phone calls anymore. I don’t have drop-ins. I don’t have the kind of friends who show up without warning.

It couldn’t be my neighbor Mrs Brickmore, either. She left this morning, dragging Charlie and Milly toward the bus stop while I was heading in the opposite direction toward the cemetery. She’s predictable. Shopping on Wednesdays, bingo on Thursdays, gossip every other day.

My stomach drops.

That leaves my landlord.

The sleazy fuck’s been circling for weeks now, finding excuses to “check the pipes” or “inspect the locks,” always with that smirk like he’s picturing me on my knees instead of fixing whatever’s broken.

He’s the type who thinks because the place is cheap and falling apart, I should be grateful enough to put up with his wandering eyes.

Another knock sounds.

I cross the cramped space, avoiding the peeling patch of lino in front of the sink. My pulse hammers in my throat as I set my camera on the table, the strap sliding until it hangs over the edge of the chipped table.

The peephole’s clouded from years of dust, but I can still make out the shapes—two tall figures, filling the hall.

It’s not my landlord.

My heart does that thing it always does when I see them—trips, stumbles, forgets the rhythm meant to keep me alive.

Nate with his cap backwards, shoulders squared as if the hallway isn’t big enough to hold him.

Beside him, Theo, standing too close in that way he always does, restless energy written in every line of him.

I step back, my fingers lift on instinct, combing through my hair to smooth out the worst of the mess.

Hours in the darkroom mean chemicals and heat have had their way with my hair, and frizz is the price I always pay for my craft.

Not that either of them have ever cared how I look, but something in me still wants to meet them on even ground.

But I stop short.

What the fuck are they doing here?

I haven’t heard a thing from either of them in days.

Three, to be exact. Three days since I walked away from them at the airport, red-eyed and blotchy, snot running, mortified that I couldn’t hold it together. No texts. No calls. No sign they even noticed I was gone.

To be fair, I didn’t reach out to them either.

A few times I almost did.

I had the words sitting on my screen—some funny joke or ridiculous meme for Theo, a quick check-in with Nate asking how things were going.

My thumb would hover over send before I backspaced everything into nothing.

No way was I going to make a fool of myself, acting like some clingy girl desperate to hold onto a fortnight of fun with old friends.

Or worse, chasing after rockstars who have the world at their feet while I’m just someone they entertained for a while before going back to lives that barely have room for me.

Still, seeing them here now, so close I could reach out and touch them through the wood, twists something deep in my chest.

I open the door, pulling it wider with a smile.

“What are you guys doing here?”

Nate steps forward without answering. His hands cradle my face with the kind of certainty that makes my knees want to give way. He studies me for a beat, eyes running over every inch, as if he is checking I am still the same. Then his mouth is on mine.

His lips move in slow, measured strokes, coaxing rather than taking. He breathes into it, and my body betrays me, leaning closer, letting the kiss catch me completely. His thumbs stroke over my cheeks, gentle enough to make me want to close my eyes and stay here forever.

It is too much and not enough all at once. That kiss holds things I do not dare name, but the truth burns in the heat between us, in the way he drags the moment out until my pulse is a drumbeat in my ears.

When he finally pulls back, his lips curve into that sexy, dangerous grin.

“Missed you,” he says, the words carrying a heavy weight.

I try to breathe, but the sound slips out as a whisper. “Missed you too.”

Then my eyes shift to Theo.

He moves closer, every line of his body wound tight. His mouth twitches as if he has a smart-ass remark loaded, but nothing comes out.

And for one ridiculous second, I wonder if they came here for something else entirely.

A quick fuck.

A warm body between them.

A way to work out the tension they carry everywhere. Because I am not some booty call. I am not someone they can show up on the doorstep after three days of silence expecting me to spread my legs.

Although, if they gave me those looks that make my knees weak, I’d probably think about it.

Fuck, who am I kidding of course I would.

Theo finally steps in, closing the gap. His hug is quick and tight, his chest solid against me, his breath warm against my hair. But there’s a care to it, almost cautious, as if one wrong move might splinter whatever fragile, unspoken thing is holding us together.

I stay in his arms, letting the weight of him settle over me.

Whatever brought them here, I still have no answer.

The question burns hotter than the kiss Nate left behind, but I bite it back.

The longer he holds me, the less I care about anything except the steady press of him against me and the strange, fragile thread binding us together.

He pulls back. “Hey, sunshine.”

The smile he gives me isn’t the one I remember. It stops short, hanging in place without the heat he usually carries.

“Still haven’t torched this place, huh?”

“Tempting,” I tell him, lips curving even while I’m studying him too closely. “You two planning to come in or stand out here acting like emotionally unstable door-to-door salesmen?”

Nate crosses the threshold first.

Theo trails after him, his shoulders drawn tight. His eyes sweep the room in a slow pass, pausing at corners, at the cluttered shelves, at the stack of laundry I didn’t have time to hide.

Theo is closed off, guarded in a way I’ve never seen with him before. Whatever he’s carrying has nothing to do with my apartment. The weight runs deeper than that.

Nate drops onto the couch, settling in without a single flicker of guilt for the mess in his wake.

Theo doesn’t follow. He stays on his feet, arms folded, shoulder leaning against the wall.

His eyes shift to the table, lingering on the mess of prints I’ve developed since I got back.

Too many. Evidence of hours in the darkroom, of the rabbit hole I disappear into until time stops meaning anything.

Where the chemical smell clings to my skin and my fingers prune from the rinse water, and I only come up for air when the real world forces its way back in.

There are candid ones, where they didn’t know I was watching. Shots of them caught mid-smile, unaware of the lens. Others where I set the timer and ran into the frame where Theo would find some way to ruin it, pulling a face or making me laugh so hard my eyes squeezed shut.

I hate that they are seeing this. The parts of them I kept.

I clear my throat, grateful for the excuse to move.

“Water? Tea? Coffee? The kind of wine that could strip the paint off the walls?”

“Water,” Nate says.

Theo tilts his head.

“Water,” he repeats, then lets a slow smirk creep in. “If I drink paint-stripper, I’ll end up challenging the fan to a fight. And we both know the fan’s undefeated.”

I bite back a laugh, because that’s Theo, throwing out something ridiculous to cover whatever the hell’s running through his head. But it’s there, in the way his eyes don’t stay on me for long. He’s hiding something under the joke.

I make my way to the fridge, grateful I filled the water shelf yesterday.

The cold seeps through the plastic as I grab two bottles.

When I turn back, I freeze. Nate is at the table, leaning over my prints.

His hands move, lifting one photograph, studying it for longer than I can stand, then setting it aside for the next.

I pass Theo his water on the way by, catching the glint of his rings in the light as he takes it.

My focus drifts back to Nate. He lifts another print, his brow drawn, the edge of his mouth unreadable. I wish for one fleeting second that the stacks scattered across the table were filled with shots of the band. Something I could point to and shrug off as work.

Instead, it is of them.

Theo in profile, his jaw caught in a shaft of light. Nate laughing at something I said off-camera. The three of us in frames I set on timers, moments where they didn’t realize they were mine to keep.

I had printed too many. I was aware of that. But missing them had sunk into my bones, and I needed them in my orbit again. This was the only way I could trap us in these small, frozen seconds and keep them where I could reach them.

I drift towards Nate as he studies another photograph. The fridge hum falls away. The whole room narrows to the table, the prints, his hands. To his fingertips skimming the border, almost reverent. A breath slides out of him. The vein at his temple ticks.

“Those are from the last day,” I say, not sure why but feel the need to say it even though I am sure he already knows.