Page 34 of Whiskey & Wreckage

THOMAS

Things have been good.Likeshockinglygood. The kind of good that makes a guy wait for the other shoe to drop, because no one just gets to be this lucky without some kind of cosmic price tag attached.

It’s been a couple of months since Poppy started her new job, and she’s thriving. Coming home late with stories about coworkers and project wins, glowing in that way that makes me want to bottle her laugh and keep it in my pocket. She’s sharp and driven and so damn happy it almost guts me to look at her sometimes.

She spends most nights at my place now. Not officially, not “moved in” moved in—but close enough.

She’s got two drawers in my dresser. Half a row of hangers in the closet. A toothbrush next to mine, her skincare stuff taking up a whole corner of the sink. There’s a satin bonnet draped over my headboard, and Bear now only sleeps onherside of the bed when she’s not there.

Every morning she’s with me, she steals my socks, drinks the last of my coffee, and kisses me goodbye like we’ve been doing this for years.

I think I’m a little in love with all of it. Okay. Nota little. I’m completely wrecked over her.

I haven’t said it yet, mostly because I don’t want to scare her off. I’ve got a past full of burned bridges and hard lessons, and Poppy’s the first good thing that feelssafe.Real.

I’ve been trying to play it right. Give her space. Let her come to me. But lately, space is all I’m getting. Something shifted this past week. She’s been distant. Short texts. Missed calls. She hasn’t stayed the night in four days. Said she needed a few quiet evenings to herself.

I told myself it was fine. That she probably needed time to decompress. But I know her. And this isn’t that. This is her closing the door on me, and I have no idea why. And it’s driving me fucking insane.

She doesn’t answer my calls. Just sends one text.

I’m okay. Just tired.

That’s not her. Not really. Poppy doesn’t avoid. The woman calls me out when I breathe wrong. She doesn’t ghost me unless she’s trying to keep something in. I know her too well not to notice.

So when I text her this morning…

Me: Come over. Bear misses you. I miss you.

She responds a full hour later.

Poppy: Not feeling great. Just want to rest. I’m okay, promise.

I don’t believe her.

Me: Want me to bring you something?

Poppy: No. Just need a quiet day. Let me rest, okay?

That “let me” hits wrong.

Like she’s trying to push me away with sugar-coated words and hoping I don’t notice.

But I notice. And I’m done waiting. I knock on her door fifteen minutes later. Firm. Not loud. But steady enough to say:I’m here and I’m not leaving.

The door flies open. She’s standing there in leggings and an oversized hoodie, hair in a messy bun, eyes tired and flashing.

“What the hell, Thomas?”

I lift my hands. “You stopped answering me.”

“Because I needed space,” she snaps. “That doesn’t meanshow up anyway.”

“I was worried.”

“I said I’m fine!”

“No, you said you were tired. Which is code forI’m not okay but don’t ask me about it.”

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