For the next week, I spend nearly every waking moment texting Jensen—except when I'm with Lee. Then I force myself not to think about him at all. Jensen still doesn't know how complicated things are, how I'm walking on eggshells just to keep Lee from finding out he came to the garage.
But I've caught Lee watching me. Odd glances when he thinks I'm not paying attention. He hasn't said anything about Jensen, but I think he knows something's up. He just keeps asking about completely unrelated things—like what time I'm working or if I've seen his charger. A big part of me is terrified that if he does find out, he'll lose it. And try to stop Jensen from seeing me again.
I stayed over at Ember's one night. We sat up late watching Netflix and demolished three bottles of her wine. It was fun until the next morning—my stomach hasn't forgiven me. Safe to say, I won't be drinking that stuff again anytime soon.
Now my date with Jensen is only two days away, and I don't know what to do with myself. I'm nervous. Excited. Mostly nervous. I've never been on a date before, so I'm not even sure what I'm supposed to expect. Or wear. Or say.
Since the garage, we've been talking nonstop—calls, texts, random pictures of coffee or songs. He's still him, still Jensen in all the familiar ways… but he's changed too. Older. More careful with his words. But those words? They walk a fine line between friendship… and something else. And I'm not sure I'm ready to think about that something else yet.
When I'm not tiptoeing around Lee or texting Jensen, I've been interviewing people for the shop. Which is proving a lot harder than I thought it'd be. I've met six potential hires so far, and the only one that stood out was a guy named Rich—late twenties, bald, gold cross around his neck. Tattoos up and down his arms. He sat across from me and straight-up said, "I was in prison for five years." Then he told me it was for robbing houses as a teenager.
I should've thanked him for his honesty and moved on. But something in my gut told me to consider giving him a shot. Still… I'm not sure yet.
Soft music plays low through the living room. I'm curled up cross-legged on the couch, lit only by my laptop screen and a few flickering candles. The window's cracked open just enough to let in the scent of the trees, the rustle of wind. This house feels like peace most nights.
Tonight… not so much.
I'm scrolling through job applications, rereading Rich's for the third time, when I hear the door open. Lee walks in, fiddling with the watch I gave him for Christmas, clasping it around his wrist like a silent message.
He's dressed to go out—pink polo, blue jeans, white trainers. I glance up from the screen.
"Where are you going?"
He barely spares me a look. "Out."
His tone is short, clipped—just enough edge to make my stomach tighten.
I sigh, trying to keep it casual. "Suit yourself. Was just asking."
The tension in the room is thick enough to slice through. It's been building all week, slow and quiet, like a kettle left on the stove. I know Lee's going to snap—it's not a matter of if, just when.
He's halfway to the door when he stops. "Why? You wanna come?"
I look up at him briefly, then back to my screen. "No. I'm having an early night. Have fun."
Silence stretches between us, too long. I don't even register what's on the screen anymore—I can feel him glaring. My shoulders stiffen. And then, right on cue—
"You used to want to come with me everywhere. What happened to you?"
I close the laptop gently, trying to keep my voice level. "You, Lee. You happened to me."
He freezes.
"I stopped going with you because every time you get drunk, you get angry. And it's always me you take it out on."
He takes three deliberate steps toward the couch. I watch his nostrils flare, his jaw tense, and I know what's coming.
"It's you that makes me like that," he says, voice low but sharp. "If you'd just walk away before I get too angry, then I wouldn't—"
"It's always my fault, isn't it?" I shoot up from the couch, voice rising. "Every single time, Lee, it's me. I'm fucking sick of it. Take some responsibility for once. Just once."
His eyes go cold—dark and hollow—and that familiar dread curls in my gut, but I stand my ground.
"So that's where you're going with this?" he spits. "You're blaming it all on me?"
"What does that even mean, Lee?"
"It means you stand there acting like I'm the problem, when it's you. You, Adria."
"Oh, of course. You're perfect, right? You've never done anything wrong?" I throw my arms up. "Please."
"I protected you!" he explodes. "And the second that pervert came around, you changed. You met him what—three times? And now you're still obsessing over him?"
He grabs the crystal vase from the shelf and hurls it across the room. It shatters, loud and sharp. I jump, stumbling behind the couch.
"You designed this house like him! You named your shop after his sick little nickname for you! You restored that old piece-of-shit bike for him, and don't even pretend you didn't!" he roars, grabbing the crystal bowl and throwing it next. More glass, more splintering.
All the strength I had fizzles away. I flinch again, shrinking behind the couch as the weight of it crashes down.
"Fuck you, Adria. Don't you get it? He didn't care about you. He used you, you stupid bitch. And you've spent every day since punishing me for it."
I don't respond. I just stare at the broken vase, the shards spread across the floor like guilt. Like another thing ruined because of Lee.
"Fuck this. And fuck you."
He storms out, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the windows.
stand there frozen, the echo of the slammed door still hanging in the air like smoke after a fire.
A shaky breath escapes as I step backward until my shoulder hits the wall. Slowly, I slide down it until I'm sitting on the floor, pulling my knees to my chest.
The breeze drifting through the open window lifts the lace curtain, casting moving shadows in the candlelight. The air smells like pine and soil. Under different circumstances, it would've felt peaceful. But tonight, everything feels tainted. Wrong.
Is this what it's always going to be with Lee? Always waiting for him to snap? He's getting worse. I don't like admitting it, but it's true. The fear I carry when I'm near him—it's not normal. It's not love. It's walking on eggshells in your own home.
And the worst part? Most of the time, I just… let it happen. Because fighting back means this. Every. Single. Time.
I press a hand to my face, trying to ground myself. Eventually, I force my body to move, grabbing the wall for support and pushing myself upright. Baby steps to the kitchen, where I grab the broom, dustpan, and a garbage bag.
I need to focus. Need to clean.
Back in the living room, the soft melody of Secondhand Serenade's "Goodbye" plays through the speakers, slicing right through me.
"Maybe I'm to blame… maybe we're the same… but either way, I can't breathe…"
I kneel, sweeping up the shards of the vase and bowl, blinking hard to keep the tears at bay. Among the wreckage, I spot the broken photo frame. I pick it up gently.
It's the picture of me and Lee the day we got the keys to this house. He's got his arm slung around me, both of us grinning like idiots. I swipe my thumb over the glass, tracing the smiles.
We were happy once. Weren't we?
Shaking my head, I set the frame down and head to the kitchen to drop the bag of glass on the counter. I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and take a long drink, my hands still trembling.
Then I circle the room, closing the window, blowing out the candles one by one, shutting the laptop, and locking up the doors. I punch in the alarm code and finally grab my phone off the table.
I'm exhausted—physically, emotionally. Every cell in my body begs for sleep.
In my room, I strip down to my underwear and collapse into bed, pulling the covers up to my chin. The mattress feels cool and familiar beneath me. My head sinks into the pillow with a deep, tired sigh.
Just as I begin to drift, my phone buzzes.
I groan, reach for it, and swipe open the message.
Jensen: Two days. Sweet dreams, Adria.
Despite everything, a smile tugs at my lips.
Me: Two days. Goodnight, Jensen.
I set the phone down, still smiling faintly. But when I close my eyes again, I don't see him.
I see Lee.
And all I can think is… maybe tomorrow we'll talk. Maybe I'll finally help him. Maybe he'll finally listen.
Before something worse happens.
Me: Hey, sorry I know it's short notice but I'm going to have to cancel tonight.
Jensen: You're cancelling fifteen minutes before I'm meant to pick you up?
Me: I know, I'm sorry. I'm stuck at work. Can we rain check?
Jensen: Adria, what's wrong?
Me: Nothing's wrong. Maybe a different day, Jensen. I need to go. ttyl.
I drop the phone. It hits the garage floor with a dull thud, screen-down. I don't even check if it cracked.
My head falls back against the wall, and I close my eyes, sucking in a breath like I'm trying to stay above water. But the tears are already falling, warm and relentless.
Today was supposed to be normal. I got up, showered, came into the shop humming under my breath. I even wore the necklace I hadn't touched in months. I was going to see Jensen tonight, and I felt… good.
And then Lee walked in.
I should've known the second I saw him. Same clothes he wore when he stormed out two days ago. Half-empty beer bottle swinging from his hand. Bloodshot eyes. Reeking of sweat and booze.
I barely got a word out before he started yelling.
"I just wanted to see you and this is what I get? Why do I even fucking bother, Adria?!"
He chucked the bottle at the wall. It didn't hit anything important—but it didn't need to. The sound alone made me flinch.
"What the hell is wrong with you? Go home, Lee," I snapped, backing up a step.
"No." His voice echoed off the garage walls. "Fuck you, Adria. Did you really think I wouldn't find out?"
I didn't even have time to ask what he meant.
He grabbed one of the metal tools from the workbench. My stomach sank. I started moving toward him, already trying to de-escalate, but he was heading straight for the bike.
"No—Lee. What are you—"
He shoved me. Hard.
I stumbled backward, landing flat on the concrete. My skull cracked against the floor, and the pain lit up my vision in bursts of white. My ears rang, my limbs went slack. For a moment, I couldn't even breathe.
When I forced myself to look up, he was standing over the bike.
And I knew. I knew that look.
"Lee, please," I whispered. "Don't—"
But it was too late.
He raised the tool and swung.
Crack. Smash. Bang.
Again.
And again.
And again.
"No—Lee, stop!" I scrambled up, trying to wedge myself between him and the bike. "Please—please stop—"
He grabbed my arm and threw me sideways like I was nothing. My hip slammed into the ground. I cried out, curling into myself.
And he just kept going.
The chrome mirror cracked first. Then the handlebars. Then the tank I'd custom-painted with my own hands. The seat tore, the front wheel snapped.
The bike I'd spent years restoring. The bike I'd built for Jensen.
Gone.
I couldn't do anything but watch—watch as the pieces of my heart shattered alongside it. Watch the version of me that believed in fixing things get buried under every swing of that wrench.
Eventually, Lee stopped. He stood there panting, glaring down at the wreckage like it had personally betrayed him.
Then, he spit on it.
"Give that to him," he said coldly.
He didn't look at me when he walked out.
Didn't care that I was on the floor, sobbing.
Didn't care that something inside me had broken, maybe for good.
I stared at the ruin for a long time. Then I stood—barely—and walked over to the wreckage. Knees buckled beneath me, and I collapsed, hands trembling over the mangled metal.
I didn't scream.
I sobbed.
The kind of sob that empties you out from the inside.
The garage is silent now, except for the occasional creak of cooling metal. I don't even bother wiping my face—what's the point? I lean my head back against the wall and close my eyes.
Then—buzzing.
I crack one eye open and glance at my phone, lying face-down on the concrete. It vibrates again.
And again.
And again.
On the fourth ring, I finally reach for it with a trembling hand.
"…Yeah?" My voice is hoarse, raw from crying.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong."
There's a pause. Then, in the gentlest voice: "You know you're the worst liar I've ever met, right?"
Despite everything, a small, wet chuckle escapes me. "You've said that before."
"And I'll say it again. Now talk to me, Adria."
I hesitate—then it comes out, one breath, one jagged truth I can't hold in anymore.
"He broke my bike," I whisper. "The one I showed you last week. The one I… built for you." My voice splinters on the words. "He smashed it to pieces. It's ruined, Jensen. I can't fix it. Not this time."
The line goes quiet for a moment, and I think maybe he's trying to figure out what to say.
"Are you still at the shop?"
"Yeah."
"Can I come in?"
Even in my wrecked state, my eyes narrow toward the door. It's cracked open from when Lee left. I don't know why, but something tells me Jensen's already here.
"You… shouldn't be here," I whisper.
There's a beat of silence before his voice comes through soft, steady, and certain.
"There's nowhere else I'd want to be right now, kid."
And then the door opens.
He steps inside like he's been waiting outside for the right moment—phone still pressed to his ear. His gaze sweeps the space, landing on me slumped against the wall. He ends the call and pockets the phone, walking toward me with slow, deliberate steps.
His eyes flick to the bike first—what's left of it. Then to me.
I probably look like hell. Oil-streaked vest, blue overalls tied at the waist. Hair a mess. Red, puffy eyes. Tear-streaked cheeks. Hands shaking.
Still, Jensen doesn't flinch.
He crouches in front of me, eyes searching mine as he gently cups my chin between his fingers. Just his thumb and forefinger, soft and steady.
He studies me. For bruises. For damage. For signs of who I used to be.
And then—his eyes meet mine, and something in my chest shudders.
"Hey," he says, barely above a whisper.
"Hi." I try to smile, but it collapses, another broken sob wracking through me. My face crumples.
Jensen's expression twists in pain like my cry hurts him physically.
"Come here," he says quietly.
I don't even think. I move.
I throw myself at him, burying my face in his neck. My arms go around his shoulders, desperate, clinging.
And his arms—God, his arms wrap around me like they were built for this. One under my legs, one around my back. He stands with me in one effortless motion.
"I've got you," he murmurs against my temple. "It's okay, Adria. I've got you."
I hold on tighter, sobbing into his neck as he walks. Letting myself fall apart, because—for once—I don't have to hold myself together.
Not alone.
He carries me past the workbench, through the broken remains of the bike, and straight to the exit.
Outside, I hear faint voices. A door unlocking. Someone asking something—Sam maybe.
"Lock up for me. Bring me the keys when you're done," Jensen says lowly.
"Is she okay?" Sam asks.
Jensen doesn't answer at first. Just pulls me closer. "Bring them when you're done, yeah?"
And then I feel him maneuver into the passenger side of his car, still holding me. The door shuts. The car is silent but safe.
He leans back, pulling me with him. I curl into his chest, a mess of tears and grief and exhaustion.
His hand finds my hair.
"Sshhh… just rest," he whispers. "You're okay now. I've got you."
And for the first time in a long, long while, I believe him.