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Should I go back in?

No. That’s what got me kicked out in the first place. Trying to control everything. Fix everything. Just like… fuck. Just like Elijah.

My phone’s in my hand before I realize it. Blake’s number stares back at me. She’d come running for Naomi. Probably punch me in the face first, but she’d be here.

But calling Blake means admitting I couldn’t handle this. That I fucked up. That Naomi needs someone else.

The thing is, I know what happens next. Naomi will put herself back together. Show up at our next dinner date like nothing happened. Perfect mask in place. We’ll go back to our careful dance of boundaries and rules.

And I’ll watch her slowly destroy herself.

Just like I’m destroying myself.

Stay or go?

Push or pull back?

Call Blake or handle this myself?

Every option feels wrong. But doing nothing feels worse.

I hit Blake’s number.

She picks up on the first ring. “What?”

“She needs you.” The words are dry and bitter on my tongue. “I fucked up.”

“I’m on my way.” Blake’s voice carries that edge of protective fury I’ve come to expect. “Where are you?”

“Outside her door.”

“Stay there.”

“Blake—”

“Shut up and listen. You’re going to wait until I get there. Then you’re going to tell me exactly what happened. And then you’re going to leave and let me handle this.”

The line goes dead.

I slide down the wall next to Naomi’s door, head dropping between my knees. The hallway carpet reeks of cheap cleaner and cigarettes.

I pull out my phone again and scroll to Bash’s name.

Brandon: Need a drink. A strong one.

Sebastian: Rough night?

Brandon: Fucked up with Naomi.

Sebastian: Bar or my place?

Brandon: My place. Don’t want to deal with people.

Sebastian: That bad?

Brandon: Worse.

20 minutes later the elevator dings, and Blake stalks out, her red hair a mess, wearing what looks like yesterday’s clothes.

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