My brain tried to tell me it wasn’t a big deal. That Blake could have girls over. That he could do whatever he wanted. But the truth was, none of those thoughts could silence the panic rising in my chest. It swelled up inside my throat like I was drowning in air. Then came the hurt—sharp and unforgiving, like stepping on glass and realizing too late that you’re bleeding.

The girl looked up then, as if she had only just realized someone else was in the room. She blinked a few times, clearly caught off guard by my presence. And then, as if this wasn’t already humiliating enough, she gave me a small, polite smile.

Blake still hadn’t said anything.

I took one slow step backward.

Then another.

Blake moved. “Beverly⁠—”

I turned and walked out.

I didn’t run. I didn’t slam the door. I just walked. One foot in front of the other, my ears ringing, my breath shallow. I felt like I was floating, as if I had stepped into some alternate reality where Blake didn’t look at me like I was his anymore. Where there were other girls in his room. Where I was just a stranger walking in on something I had no right to interrupt.

I didn’t even know what I felt—anger, embarrassment, hurt—all of it knotted together in a tight mess that made my chest ache, as if someone had wrapped a rope around my ribs and was pulling, pulling, pulling. I didn’t hear anything except the rush of blood in my ears and the sound of Blake’s footsteps following me.

“Beverly, wait.”

I didn’t stop moving until I was in my room.

Staring at nothing.

I leaned back against the door, sliding down to the floor until I was sitting, knees pulled to my chest, arms wrapped tightly around them. My breath came in shallow gasps, as if I’d been running for miles. I was broken in a way I couldn’t even begin to explain.

Because Blake had been my first instinct.

And I had been so stupid to think he was still mine.

A sharp knock at the door made me flinch.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

“Beverly.”

I ignored him.

Another knock. More insistent. “Open the door, B.”

I stared at the floor, my breath shaky.

“Beverly.”

The doorknob turned.

I shot to my feet, twisting the lock before he could get in.

My fingers trembled around the handle.

“You’re locking me out?”

A bitter laugh escaped me. “Oh, I don’t know, Blake, should I leave my door open? Seems like that’s your thing.”

Silence.

Then a sharp breath. “Jesus Christ.”

I heard it then—the subtle tremor in his breath, the way it shook, as if the frustration he was holding in was barely contained.

I swallowed, hating how my chest tightened at the sound.