[CONTENT TEMPLATE HERE]
Chapter 671:
June pulled her hand back, crossing her arms over her chest. The gesture was defensive, automatic, and she hated herself for it. She had just agreed to stay. She had just kissed him like she meant it. And now her body was betraying her, curling inward, protecting secrets that no longer needed keeping.
Easton did not move to close the distance. He simply watched her, his gray eyes tracking every micro-expression, every flicker of uncertainty.
“Take the bedroom,” he said. “I’ll take the sofa p>
“You don’t p>
“I insist.” He was already moving toward the kitchen, his stride long and purposeful. “You’re exhausted. I can see it in the way you’re holding your shoulders. Like you’re waiting for someone to hit you p>
June stiffened. “I’m not p>
“June.” He stopped at the kitchen island, his back to her. His hands found the edge of the marble, gripping until his knuckles whitened. “Let me do this. Let me give you one night where you don’t have to be brave p>
The words struck her chest like a physical blow. She felt her throat tighten, the familiar pressure of tears she refused to shed.
She turned toward the hallway she assumed led to the bedroom. She needed to move. She needed to be behind a closed door, where she could remember how to breathe without an audience.
𝖲𝘁𝗼r𝘪𝘦s 𝘆𝗈𝘶 wо𝗻’𝘁 𝗉𝗎𝘁 𝖽ow𝗻 𝗈𝗇 𝗴𝗮𝗹ոо𝗏elѕ.𝗰𝗼𝗆
“Easton p>
“Yes p>
She paused at the threshold, not turning back. “Thank you. For the tea. Earlier p>
She heard him laugh, low and surprised. “You’re welcome. For the tea p>
She did not sleep.
The bedroom was as minimalist as the rest of the apartment—platform bed with charcoal linens, a single nightstand, a lamp with a dimmer switch she turned to its lowest setting.
June lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, counting the minutes until the silence in the other room deepened into sleep. She needed to know he was unconscious before she allowed herself to relax even fractionally. It was a habit born of years with Cole—years of never knowing when the door might burst open, when the peace might shatter.
But Easton was not Cole.
She repeated this to herself like a mantra, until the words lost their meaning and became only rhythm.
Easton is not Cole. Easton is not Cole. Easton is not—
A sound from the living room. A muffled thud. Then silence.
June sat up, her heart rate spiking. She forced herself to wait, to listen. Another sound. A groan, low and involuntary.
She was out of bed before she could stop herself, padding down the hallway in bare feet, one hand trailing the wall for balance. The living room was dark, lit only by the city glow through the windows.
Easton was on the sofa, one arm dangling off the edge, his head turned at an angle that would leave him stiff for days. But he was not sleeping peacefully. His face was twisted, his jaw clenched, and as she watched, his body jerked—a full-body spasm that rattled the coffee table.
“Easton p>
She said his name softly. He did not wake.
She moved closer, crouching beside the sofa. His skin was pale, sheened with sweat, his breathing too fast, too shallow. She recognized the symptoms—panic attack, or the precursor to one. She had seen it in herself often enough.