Page 72 of Breakaway Daddies

I hesitate for a moment, taking in her words, then sit up gradually, the sheets whispering against my skin as they slide down my chest.

“Right,” I say, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, feeling the coolness of the floor beneath my feet. “Back to routine.”

I start pulling on my hoodie, the fabric stiff and slightly rough against my skin, having dried unevenly on her bathroom radiator. The cotton scratches my arms, and somehow that discomfort feels fitting.

I steal a glance at her, watching as she sits cross-legged on the edge of her bed, her focus seemingly lost in the pages of a well-worn novel.

“Do you want to move into our place?” I ask again. “You’d have your own room. It’s not like we’d be in each other’s way. Unless you wanted us to be.”

She keeps her eyes fixed on the book, her fingers idly tracing the dog-eared pages. “No point,” she finally replies, her voice steady but distant. “None of the schools I applied to are anywhere near your place. And anyway, I like having my own space.”

Her words hit harder than I expect, each sentence like a cold gust of wind. I nod slowly, my gaze dropping to the scuffed floorboards, avoiding her eyes that remain hidden behind a curtain of hair.

“Got it,” I mutter.

I don’t say goodbye. I just leave, the hoodie half-zipped and shoes dangling from my fingertips.

The apartment door creaks as it opens, a sound that echoes in the quiet hallway. My throat feels like sandpaper, raw and scratchy, and an itch crawls under my skin, persistent and unrelenting.

Even after I leave, their voices seep through the thick, wooden door, subdued but charged with tension. I can almost see Thomas pacing back and forth, his footsteps a steady, dull thud against the carpeted floor.

“She just doesn’t get it,” he insists, his voice strained and edged with frustration. “She doesn’t understand what it means to be loved. Not really.”

A heavy silence follows, hanging in the air like a storm cloud. Then Jinx’s voice cuts through, sharp and wounded. “You think I don’t know how to love people? Really? You think I haven’t tried?”

I wince, pressing my back against the cool plaster of the hallway wall, eavesdropping despite knowing I shouldn’t.

Thomas fires back, his tone clipped. “You try, yeah. But you don’t let it happen. There’s a difference.”

The door creaks softly on its hinges as Bruno slips out into the hallway beside me, shrugging into his worn leather coat. His eyes are downcast as he adjusts the collar and secures the top button.

“She asked me what our deal was,” he mutters, his voice low and weary. “I just kissed her. I didn’t know what to say.”

Outside, the snowflakes swirl gracefully, illuminated by the truck’s headlights, like tiny dancers in a winter ballet. Within the cab, the heater hums steadily, but it fails to keep the chill from creeping into my bones.

We drive without speaking, lost in our thoughts, until we’re nearly home. Bruno clears his throat, breaking the quiet.

“My grandma said that Jinx is strong, fiercely independent. She might not even know how to let someone take care of her. But if we truly love her, we have to be patient and wait.”

Thomas lets out a long, slow breath, as if he’s been holding it for an eternity. “That woman’s the only one who makes any sense these days,” he murmurs, his voice tinged with admiration.

I nod, watching as the windshield wipers sweep rhythmically across the glass, leaving arcs of clarity in a world of white. “Waiting sucks,” I admit, the words heavy with frustration.

“Yeah,” Bruno responds, his voice barely above a whisper. “It does.”

“But,” I continue, trying to inject a sliver of optimism into the conversation, “maybe it’s all we’ve got.”

Thomas tilts his head back, resting it against the cold glass of the window. “Waiting, hoping, and trying not to lose our minds,” he adds, and he sounds resigned but determined.

After that, silence reclaims the space between us.

We drive on through the gentle cascade of snowflakes, each of us clinging to the fragile hope that Jinx will see us as worth choosing in the end.

CHAPTERTWENTY-THREE

Jinx

The application portalglares back at me from the screen, all sterile white boxes with a polite, unassuming font that seems to mock my indecision.

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