Adrian

I pick Rylee up at exactly seven.

Not because I care.

I tell myself this like a prayer, gripping the steering wheel so tight my knuckles whiten. Showing up late would be reckless, a dead giveaway. But arriving on time? That's precision. Control.

And I am in control.

Until she opens the front door.

She stands there like a ghost of herself, wearing a black dress that makes my pulse slam against my ribcage. The fabric dips low at the back, exposing smooth skin I used to trace with my fingertips. Her hair is pinned up, and I can almost feel the way it used to tangle in my hands.

I look away.

"You ready?" My voice is a blade, sharp enough to cut.

She nods, stepping past me, her perfume clinging to the air like an unwanted memory. I don't touch her back, don't guide her like I used to. She doesn't look at me as we head to the car, her heels clicking against the pavement like a countdown to something inevitable.

The drive is suffocating.

I grip the wheel like it's the only thing tethering me to reality, pretending I don't notice how she shifts in her seat. Pretending her knees pressed tightly together don't remind me of the nights she used to stretch out on the couch, feet in my lap, laughing like I was her whole world.

I force my jaw shut.

By the time we pull up to her parents' mansion, my chest feels like a war zone.

I kill the engine, climbing out before I do something reckless. Like touch her.

Or beg her to stay.

Dinner is a slow, painful death.

Her mom glides around the room like a hostess from hell, refilling wine glasses and asking questions with too many sharp edges.

Her dad watches me the whole time. Measuring. Calculating.

Kami, her older sister, is oblivious — grinning as she launches into an obnoxious monologue about her new boyfriend. She elbows Rylee, teasing her about how lucky she is to have a "perfect husband."

I nearly choke on my whiskey.

Rylee laughs, the sound brittle. She lifts her glass, fingers trembling just enough to make my chest clench. She never looks at me, not even when her mom asks about our future.

Not even when her dad finally stands and says, "Adrian. Let's talk."

I already know I'm walking into a goddamn trap.

The study smells like cigar smoke and regret.

Her dad pours two glasses of scotch, handing me one. I take it out of habit, fingers cold against the glass.

We stand in silence, the clock ticking too loudly.

"It's almost done," he says finally, his voice low.

I nod, swallowing against the ache in my throat.

"Yeah," I mutter. "Almost."

He watches me like he's waiting for me to break. To confess.

I just drink.

"We'll talk more when it's final," he says, turning back toward the window. "Until then…"

He trails off, letting the weight of it settle like a noose around my neck.

I walk out of the room feeling like I'm carrying a corpse.

The car ride back is brutal.

Rylee stares out the window, her profile illuminated by the streetlights. Her hand rests in her lap, fingers curled tightly.

She doesn't ask what her dad said.

She doesn't look at me.

And I don't tell her the truth — that her dad barely said anything at all. That the silence was worse.

The unspoken understanding that whatever we used to be is already dead.

When we pull into the driveway, she unbuckles her seatbelt before the car fully stops.

I grab her wrist.

"Adrian," she snaps, voice low.

I don't let go.

I pull her toward me, fingers pressing into the small of her back like muscle memory.

Her chest rises and falls too fast, eyes wide as she glares up at me.

"This is insane," she hisses.

I almost laugh.

"You're insane," I whisper, leaning closer. "Playing happy in front of your family when you're barely holding it together."

Her nails dig into my chest, but she doesn't shove me away.

"Let. Go," she grits out.

I don't.

I slide my hand to her waist, dragging her against me until there's nothing left between us but sharp, splintering pain.

She doesn't breathe.

Her eyes flick to my mouth, and for one brutal second, I almost break.

I almost kiss her.

I almost destroy everything.

But then she rips herself free.

She storms inside, heels clacking against the hardwood like gunfire. I follow, the front door slamming behind me like a coffin lid.

We part ways in the hallway, retreating to separate rooms like strangers.

I sit on the edge of my bed, fingers curled into fists, breathing like I just survived a fight.

Because I did.

And I lost.

2:17 a.m.

I'm still awake.

I stare at the ceiling, chest aching.

I don't know if I hate her or if I hate myself more.

But the worst part?

The worst part is knowing she felt it, too.

Because for one devastating, fleeting moment — she didn't pull away.

She leaned in.

And that's enough to destroy me.