Page 59 of Pack Frenzy
Rowan gives him a look that sayswhatever, but he sits anyway. “Just until the pizza gets here.”
They’re settling in, getting comfortable, and building memories without me. My throat closes, but it’s probably just the exhaustion pulling at me.
“Night,” I say, already halfway down the hall, dragging my suitcase behind me.
“Night,” Eli echoes, but there’s a question in it I refuse to answer.
Cassian waves two fingers in a lazy salute, and I feel the weight of his attention like hands on my skin.
Rowan nods once without looking up, focused on lining the dice by color, but his jaw’s tight like he’s holding something back.
I turn away before I can wonder what.
The hallway’s narrow, walls paneled in honeyed wood that hums faintly with the breeze. My door opens into the smaller bedroom—white sheets, a nightstand made from a repurposed crate, one window looking straight out at the dark stretch of bay.
I should close the door. Lock it. Build the barrier I need.
Instead, I leave it cracked, and I hate myself for it. For the pathetic, needy part of me that wants to hear them. Wants proof they’re still there, still real, even if I can’t let myself have them.
The murmur of voices drifts from the kitchen: the clatter of dice, Rowan’s low laugh, Cassian pretending to trash-talk, Eli’s voice steadying the chaos like gravity itself.
And for once, the sound doesn’t make me tense. It makes me ache.
It makes me want things I swore I’d stopped wanting. A table I belong at. Laughter that includes me. Cassian’s head on my shoulder meant something more than accidental proximity. Rowan’s careful attention. Eli’s easy warmth.
I press my palm to my chest, feeling my heartbeat kick against my breastbone.
This is why I don’t do this. Why I can’t. Because wanting hurts worse than loneliness ever did.
I flip the switch in the bathroom. The tub isn’t big, but the water runs hot, steaming the mirror before I can finish undressing. I sink into it until the warmth bites, the soreness in my muscles bleeding out inch by inch.
But the heaviness in my chest stays.
Steam curls around my head. The scent of soap mixes with salt still clinging to my skin from the air outside. I close my eyes and try not to think about the flight—Cassian asleep against my shoulder. Rowan’s silence pressed up against the window, Eli’s laughter cutting through the dull roar of engines, bright enough to make me believe in good things again.
It should feel crowded. That’s what I tell myself. Four people in a small cabin, too much proximity, too many chances to slip and show them the messy, broken parts I keep hidden.
But it doesn’t feel crowded.
It feels like company I didn’t know I needed. Like coming home to a place I’ve never been.
It feels dangerous.
The pipes rattle from water running somewhere down the hall, followed by Cassian’s laugh—low and close, like it’s pressed against the wall with me. Intimate in a way that has my chest twisting sideways.
I sink deeper until the water covers my ears, trying to drown out the sound of them being happy without me.
Trying not to care that I chose this solitude, the safety of distance. Trying not to wonder what it would feel like to stay at that table with them, Cassian’s knee pressed against mine, Rowan’s quiet attention making me feel seen in ways I’ve spent years avoiding, Eli’s hand casual on my shoulder like touch is easy. Like I’m easy to want.
My throat goes tight. Eyes hot.
I press my face into my wet hands until the feeling passes.
It doesn’t pass like I’ve done before.
By the time I drag myself out of the bath, the pizza’s come and gone. The smell lingers of cheese and tomato sauce. My stomach growls at me, but I can’t face them, not now.
But the kitchen sounds quiet, and I tiptoe out, hoping I can grab a bite before I bump into any of them.
