And then it hits me.
He didn’t ask—not about Ravelle. Not about moving. Not about any of it.
He told me.
Waited for me to agree.
And I did.
I board the plane with my hands wrapped too tightly around my phone, my thoughts circling just out of reach.
He’s just intense. Just decisive. Just… different. Just taking care of me.
That has to be what this is.
Ithasto be.
But when the plane lifts off and Ravelle disappears beneath the clouds, something unsettled stays with me. A quiet, persistent unease I can’t quite shake.
Because if it’s really this easy—if it’s really this simple—then why does it feel like something is already shifting under my feet?
And why hasn’t anyone else ever wanted me like this before?
By the time the plane lands in Miami a few hours later, my head is quieter.
My body isn’t. There’s a tightness under my skin, a restless energy that doesn’t match the calm I’ve been trying to force into place.
As the Uber pulls into Adrian’s street, my shoulders tense automatically.
God. I hope he’s not home.
I don’t have the energy for questions. For that tone. For the way he picks things apart like he’s doing me a favor by pointing out what’s wrong with me.
How did I not see it before?
How did I live in that and think it was normal?
The car rolls to a stop. I glance toward the driveway.
Empty.
Relief hits fast and deep. I exhale, my body loosening in a way that feels almost embarrassing.
Just a moment. That’s all I get. A moment where I don’t have to shrink.
I grab my bag, step inside, close the door behind me, and the silence wraps around me like something unfamiliar.
My phone buzzes.
Soren:
Why haven’t you messaged me yet?
A flicker of irritation sparks. Immediate. Sharp.
But I also feel a pang of guilt. I did say I’d let him know when I landed.
Me: