Page 37 of Killing Me Softly

But he couldn’t bring himself to involve Aaron. Not yet.

Not until he had thefacts. All of them. Whether Aaron was in danger or just him, he wasn’t sure yet. Aaron had protectedperson status. Couldn’t be easily found. Unlike him. Who had his name and image splashed all over the internet. So he locked himself in his office to do what he could. What he waslegallyable to. Some of it teetering on the edges of legality.

By the time he finally emerged from his office, the house was silent. The rich scent of spaghetti bolognese lingered in the air, warm and inviting, but something about it felt wrong. Too still. Too untouched. Raking a hand through his hair, Kenny trundled downstairs, bracing himself for the chaos Aaron inevitably left in his wake. But the kitchen was… spotless. Not a single dish out of place. No dirty countertops. No half-used ingredients abandoned mid-thought. The only thing waiting for him was a plate of uneaten dinner, neatly covered in foil. A note on top sayingEat Me.

Kenny stared at it, a hollow ache clawing at his chest.

Aaron had cooked. Cleaned. Then left.

And Kenny was alone because he was too fucking scared to tell Aaron how much he needed him.

Gut sinking at the realisation he was once again falling into the abyss, he drifted his gaze to the small pile of items sat beside the plate. Pocket change, a crumpled receipt, the kind of clutter that meant Aaron had unpacked his suitcase. The distant hum of the tumble dryer in the utility room confirmed it. His clothes, freshly washed, hung over the heated rack.

Fuck.

How long had he been up there? While Kenny had shut himself away, drowning in everything except the one person who made it bearable, Aaron had been here. Caring. In his own quiet, restless, impossible way. And Kenny had ignored him. Pushed him out. Left him to piece together the wreckage of a man who didn’t know how to ask for help.

He should call him.Get in his car and storm into his room the same way Aaron did to him.Fuck the consequences.Aarondeserved better than silence. Deserved more than being shut out. But before he could reach for his phone or keys, his gaze snatched on something buried in the small pile of clutter. A business card.Dr Laura Pryce, Psychiatrist.

The breath stalled in his throat.

He’d forgotten abouther, too.

And before he could talk himself out of it, before he could claw his way out of the wreckage of his own fucking misery, before he could chooseAaronover the self-inflicted solitude of case files he always gravitated toward, he was already moving. Already bolting up the stairs, back into his office, slamming the door behind him as he dialled the number on the card.

The call rang twice before flipping to voicemail.

“Hi, Laura. It’s Dr Lyons. Kenny. Sorry we didn’t catch up in Barcelona. I…” He rubbed his forehead, voice faltering. “I had some bad news, and… well, I’d really appreciate it if you could call me back as soon as possible. It’s rather urgent.”

Ending the call, Kenny leaned back in his chair, nausea coiling tighter in his stomach. Coincidence? No, he didn’t believe in them. Never had. And certainly not now. The dull throb at his temples mirrored the buzzing tension in his chest as he clicked open his emails, seeking refuge in mindless distraction. Seeing if there was anything else he’d missed. Instead, he found another distraction in an email. Official, curt, and absolute. From his Dean of Faculty. Inviting him to discuss his professorship application first thing Monday morning.

Monday.

September 21st.

Aaron’s birthday.

Fuck.

He grabbed his phone, hesitated for half a second, then typed out the only thing that felt true. To Aaron.

I’m sorry.

The reply came almost instantly.

See you in class, doc.

Short. Distant.

The sting of it hit sharper than he’d expected. But he deserved that. A fresh slap of reality. A reminder that this—whateverthiswas—was never built to last outside the walls they’d forced it into.

And maybe that was exactly what he needed.

Boxes.He needed his boxes.

Shove it all inside—grief, guilt, Aaron—slam the lids shut, lock them down tight. Compartmentalise. Breathe. Function.

Because if he didn’t, he might just break apart completely.

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