Page 225 of Kentrell

Deeply.

Stupidly.

Hopelessly.

The realization didn’t come with fireworks or some big, sweeping romantic epiphany. It just sat there. Heavy and true. As steady as the rise and fall of my breath. As obvious as the ache in my chest when I reached for him this morning and found nothing but empty space.

I dragged myself up from the bathroom floor, rinsed my mouth at the sink, splashed water on my face, and took a second to breathe him in. His cologne still lingered in the air, soft and masculine and unmistakably him.

Where the hell was he?

I shuffled back to the bedroom, pulling my hair into a messy bun as I went, peeking out into the hall like I might catch him mid-step.

Nothing.

The hallway stretched long and quiet, sunlight spilling across the marbled floors, touching the edges of framed photos and art like it belonged there—like it had been there for decades.

I moved slow, barefoot, feeling the cool tile under my feet as I walked past rooms I’d made temporary homes over the past…

Wow.

Almost three weeks.

Nearly three full weeks of being here. Out of work. Away from my friends. And even farther away from my mama.

And that thought… it didn’t hurt like it used to.

That scared me more than anything.

Like the second I admitted to myself that I loved Kentrell—out loud, in my own head—that confession cracked something wide open. And suddenly… this was enough for me.

Being here. With him.

I padded down the hall, past the kitchen, peeking in like he might be leaning against the counter waiting on me. No sign of him.

“Kentrell?”

My voice was soft at first, almost hesitant.

I kept going, calling his name a little louder when I reached the living room. Still nothing. No music playing. No voice drifting down from upstairs. No familiar creak of the gym door opening.

I checked the den. Empty.

The gym? Nope.

His office? The leather chair sat untouched, his laptop closed.

I stood there for a second, hands on my hips, staring at the empty space like it might suddenly fill with him if I looked hard enough.

My stomach flipped again—not nausea this time, but something deeper. Heavier. An ache low in my belly that stretched straight to my chest.

I didn’t want to start guessing where he was. Didn’t want to sit here overthinking it, letting my brain spiral into places it had no business going.

Not again.

So I grabbed my phone from the kitchen island, climbed onto one of the barstools, and hit FaceTime before I could talk myself out of it.

The screen rang once. Twice.

---