Page 54 of Connor

I lifted an eyebrow. "No? Because forcing your way in and accusing me of sleeping around sure as hell didn’t feel like you were giving me the freedom to live my life the way I want to."

His jaw ticked, but again—he didn’t argue. That irritated me more than if he had. Because this wasn’t Connor. Connor never backed down. Connor never let me have the last word. But now, he just stared back at me, something lost, something fraying at the edges, and I hated that it called to me. Hated that some part of me still cared.

Hated that I still wanted to fix the cracks he refused to acknowledge.

"You can stay. For now. But this doesn’t mean anything."

Connor shrugged. "Didn’t ask for it to."

Liar.

I expected him to apologize at some point. To admit he’d been a jealous, possessive, unbearable asshole. To say something—anything—that resembled remorse. But he didn’t. He sat there, ate his sandwich, and acted like nothing had happened.

Annoyed, I finished my food, stormed to my room, and slammed the door.

***

Four days later, Connor was still here. Still taking up space, still acting like nothing had happened, still moving through my apartment like he belonged in it.

I hated it.

I hated that a small, disgusting part of me didn’t.

Because he wasn’t just existing here. He was doing things. Making food. Cleaning dishes. Doing laundry, even though I never asked him to. I came out one morning to find him wiping down the counters like he fucking lived here. Like he was trying to be responsible.

As fucking if. This was Connor I was talking about. The man didn’t do responsible. He didrunning away. He didfucking things up. He never stayed behind to make sure my heart wasn’tbleeding out, but this time it was different. Like he wanted to prove something.

I should have told him to leave. I should have thrown it all back in his face.

But when I got home from work—the job he didn’t know about, the one I was keeping to myself because I didn’t want him to act like he had a say in any of it—and there was food waiting for me, when the sink wasn’t piled with dishes, when my apartment didn’t feel like it was caving in on me…

I melted.

And I hated myself for it.

Because it was the bare fucking minimum.

Because this wasn’t Connor.

Connor wasn’t a responsible person. He wasn’t the guy who stayed. He wasn’t the guy who did nice things just because. And yet, here he was. Cooking. Cleaning. Making sure I ate. Like he was trying to be the person I once thought he was. I didn’t know if I believed it.

I didn’t know if I should.

And I didn’t know if I should just fucking kick him out before I got too comfortable.

***

The next morning, I sat at the kitchen table, scrolling through job listings on my laptop. The job I’d gotten was at that restaurant Quinn found me at. And I didn’t have anything against waitresses, but damn it was hard making tips when you refused to flirt with the pigs that came through the door.

Connor was at the stove, flipping pancakes, acting like this was just a normal morning.

"Want some?" he asked, his voice casual, like we weren’t locked in a cold war of silence and stolen glances. I didn’t answer. Didn’t look up. Didn’t acknowledge him at all. And Iheard him chuckle under his breath, the sound low, knowing, fucking insufferable. "Suit yourself, sunshine."

My eye twitched at the nickname, but I kept my focus on the screen, even though I hadn’t actually read a single word ever since he walked out of the bathroom in a towel and nothing else.

Connor sat down across from me, taking a bite of his food, eyes locked onto mine, watching, waiting.

Then—like the last week hadn’t been pure, agonizing tension—he said, way too amused. “Heard some strange noises last night, Princess.”

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