Wynter stands in the middle of the room, barefoot, her hair a mess, with a tin of paint in one hand, a brush in the other.
She drags a streak of deep green across the pristine white wall.
“She said she liked the décor,” I mutter dryly, moving to stand beside him.
“Apparently not,” Dale smirks.
She’s singing along to whatever’s blasting through the speakers, completely in her own world. Seemingly unbothered. But at least she’s here . . . alive.
And fuck, the sight of her—it does something to me.
“She’s still fit,” Dale says casually. “Even pregnant.”
I nudge him sharply. “Watch it.”
He grins. “What? Just saying. Once she’s had the baby, how would you feel about me taking her off your hands?”
Something dark flares in my chest. “You go near her,” I say quietly, “and I’ll have to rethink this lifelong friendship.”
He chuckles. “What happened to bros before hoes?”
“Wynter isn’t a hoe, for a start,” I snap. Then, quieter, “And I’m not convinced I’m ready to give her up.”
He glances at me, more serious now. “No?”
I watch her. The way she moves. The way she hums under her breath. The way she looks . . . free.
“Something about her is addictive,” I admit. “When she’s not around, I can ignore it. Keep my distance. But the second I see her . . .” I trail off. “All I want to do is keep her. Lock her away where nothing can touch her.”
Dale lets out a low whistle. “You’ve got it bad.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Problem is, she’s in love with her dead boyfriend. How the fuck do I compete with that?”
“You don’t,” he says simply. I glance at him. “You can’t compete with a ghost,” he continues. “You just stick around. Let her see that life doesn’t stop. That you’re here when she’s ready.”
I huff out a breath. “After the way I treated her? I’d be surprised if she ever forgives me.”
Dale shrugs. “She’s still here, isn’t she?”
I look back at Wynter. Paint on her hands. Hair falling in her face. Completely wrecking my apartment.
And still—
she came back.
“That’s got to mean something,” Dale adds.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
WYNTER
“Interesting choice,” comes Ray’s voice behind me. He startles me, but I keep my back to him, dragging the brush across the wall in slow, steady strokes. “Green?” he continues, amusement lacing his tone.
It’s olive, but I don’t bother correcting him.
“I have people that can do this, you know,” he adds.
I ignore him.