Page 20 of You Owe Me

He wants to get rid of the couch.

My couch.

Okay, technically, it was Maverick’s couch first. But only in the way that a person technically owns a national monument until someone else comes along and appreciates it properly.

He had that couch before I moved in. It was just a beat-up, gray, lumpy-looking thing that looked like it had been through at least two breakups and a minor house fire. I sat on it once, and that was it. Game over. Full-body, life-altering comfort. I fell in love before I even knew how emotionally constipated Maverick was.

I remember thinking,sure, he might be cold and intimidating and allergic to feelings, but he owns this couch. So, clearly, there is hope.

And now? He wants to replace it.

With something ergonomic. I don’t even know what that means in couch terms, but it sounds like it’s going to be aggressively beige and morally disappointing.

“I just think it’s time,”he’d said, standing there like he wasn’t suggesting we rip out the heart of our home and set it on fire.

And I, in my most rational, adult tone, said,“I will bury you beneath that couch before I let you throw it away.”

Which, apparently, makes me dramatic.

So I left. Packed up my laptop and notes and came here to study and sulk. Not necessarily in that order.

I’ve been trying to focus on pinniped thermoregulation for thirty minutes, but my brain keeps replaying this morning like a director’s cut of a breakup scene. Except instead of fighting about trust issues or emotional availability, it’s CouchGate.

Goodness. I can’t live without it. The way the cushions dip just right, like it’s giving you a hug. The way one of the arms squeaks when you lean against it. It smells like Maverick’s cologne and popcorn and that time I spilled Thai food and tried to clean it with essential oils because I thought lavender could fix anything.

I’d give up him before I gave up that couch. At least the couch never judged my Hulu habits.

I’m spiraling. I know that. But I’m too caffeinated to stop.

So when a shadow falls over my table, my first instinct is to assume it’s karma, here to slap me for threatening to bury my boyfriend beneath upholstery.

But no. It’s worse.

It’s Carter Mills.

In a blush pink polo shirt—excuse me, probably “sunset coral”—with his usual smug expression and the kind of jawline that saysMy family sues people for fun.

“Ainsley James.” He says my name like he’s greeting a minor celebrity he doesn’t actually like. “What a surprise.”

I blink up at him, deadpan. “Is it, though?”

He grins and gestures at the empty chair across from me. “Mind if I join you?”

“I do, actually.” I say it sweetly. Like poison in a cupcake.

He sits anyway.

Of course, he does.

“Studying hard, I see.” He eyes the open textbook and the doodle I started absentmindedly in the margin. It’s a sea lion giving the middle flipper.

“Trying to, but the universe is being aggressively unhelpful.”

Carter taps the table with manicured fingers. “You look... tense. Everything okay?”

I raise a brow. “Do I?”

“You do. I’m not judging. It’s just an observation. You look like you’re one spilled coffee away from flipping this table.”

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