Page 65 of Off-Limits as Puck

But she’s gone. Again. Always leaving, always running, always choosing safety over us.

I stand in my destroyed kitchen, surrounded by knocked-over furniture and the ghost of her perfume. The counter where I lifted her. The wall where we fell apart. Evidence of our collision everywhere but already fading.

My phone buzzes. Weston.

Weston:You okay? Heard shouting.

Right. Thin walls. Nosy teammates.

Me:Fine.

Weston:Need company?

Me:Need to be alone.

I turn off my phone and survey the damage. Not just the furniture—that’s fixable. But the damage to my chest, the hollow ache where she carved out a space and then abandoned it.

Twice now. Twice she’s walked away after breaking me apart.

This time feels final. The transfer paperwork. Her father’s ultimatum. The way she said goodbye like she meant it.

I should feel angry. Should want to punch something, someone, anything to make this external pain match the internal. But all I feel is empty. Like she took the fire with her when she left, and now I’m just ashes.

I right the furniture, clean up the evidence of our destruction. But I can’t clean the taste of her from my mouth or the feel of her from my skin. Can’t erase the sound of her saying my name like it hurt.

In the shower, I find scratches down my back, bruises formingon my hips. Battle scars from our last war. Proof that for a few desperate minutes, we stopped pretending.

But she was right about one thing—this thing between us will destroy us both.

The question is whether we were anything worth saving in the first place.

26

Avoidance is an art form, and I’m painting a masterpiece in cowardice.

Five days since I showed up at Reed’s apartment like a hurricane in a pencil skirt. Five days since I let him pin me against his kitchen wall and prove every rational thought in my head wrong. Five days of hiding in my office, taking alternate routes through the facility, and pretending the bruises on my hips don’t throb like a guilty conscience.

“You look like shit,” Maddy announces, breezing into my office without knocking. It’s becoming a theme—people invading my space without permission, just like Reed invaded my life.

“Good morning to you too.”

“It’s two in the afternoon.” She perches on my desk, studying me with PR precision. “When’s the last time you slept? Or ate? Or did anything besides hide in here like a fugitive?”

“I’m not hiding. I’m working.”

“On what? You’ve referred Hendrix to Dr. Morse. Your other clients are stable. So what exactly requires fourteen-hour days?”

“Paperwork.”

“Bullshit.”

I look up from files I haven’t actually been reading. “What do you want, Maddy?”

“The truth would be nice. About why you look like death. About why Hendrix’s been playing like a man possessed. About why you’re avoiding the entire west wing of the building.”

“I’m not—”

“You took the service elevator yesterday to avoid the main hallway. The service elevator, Chelsea. With the mops and questionable smells.”

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