Chapter 31 Patrick
Patrick
A sigh slips out of me the second I wake — long, shaky, dragged from somewhere deep in my chest like I’ve been holding it in all night. It's Christmas break. Two full weeks without seeing Lottie.
Two weeks without her scent curling through my lungs and short-circuiting my better judgment. Without her voice softening something in my chest, I’ve spent years keeping hard. Without the constant, grinding war between instinct and reason.
It’s good. Necessary. I need the distance.
Because after what happened yesterday… I’m not sure I trust myself.
We came too close.
One moment of privacy. One moment where the world narrowed to the space between us. And suddenly every wall I’ve spent weeks building felt like it was made of spun sugar — delicate, dissolving under heat.
She looked at me, and something in me tilted. Like gravity shifted. Like we were two magnets finally allowed to obey the pull we’ve been resisting.
I came dangerously close to giving in.
And the worst part is—I wanted to.
The admission sits heavily in my chest as I stare up at the ceiling of my quiet house. Pale winter light filters through the curtains, casting faint gray shadows across the room. The house feels different this morning. Softer. Emptier.
Usually, I like the quiet. I chose this place for the quiet — a small house a few blocks from campus, far enough to breathe, close enough to walk.
Silence has always been my ally. Today, it feels like an accusation. A reminder of how thin my discipline stretched. A reminder that I am not nearly as in control as I pretend to be.
I drag a hand over my face and exhale again, slower this time.
Two weeks. I can get myself together in two weeks. I have to.
Because if I don’t… I don’t know what will happen the next time we’re alone in a room with the door closed.
I push back the covers and stand, the hardwood cool under my feet. I move through my morning on autopilot — shower, shave, brush my teeth — watching myself in the mirror like I’m observing someone else.
My mind refuses to cooperate. It keeps replaying the moment her hand brushed mine. The way her breath hitched. The way mine did.
Residual adrenaline, I tell myself. Nothing more.
Still, I should be packing.
I’m spending the first week of break at my brother Cade’s house. It’s been tradition for years — ever since Jordan was little and Cade found himself raising a child alone. He never dated seriously after that. Never let anyone close enough to disrupt the fragile equilibrium he built around his son.
His entire world narrowed to Jordan. And now that Jordan’s in college — still living at home, commuting — I can see the quiet fear in Cade’s eyes whenever the topic of “moving out” comes up. He pretends he’s fine. He isn’t. I don’t know what he’d do if he came home to an empty house every night.
I pull my suitcase from the back of my closet. The wheels thump softly against the hardwood as I set it on the bed. My bedroom is dim, since the weather is overcast. I'm sure it's already snowing. Dust motes drift lazily in the air.
I fold methodically. Sweaters. Slacks. Button-downs. Gym clothes. Pajamas. Neat stacks. Clean lines. Everything in order.
The repetition steadies my breathing. Gives my hands something concrete to focus on while my mind tries not to wander back to her.
When the suitcase is full, I zip it closed and carry it downstairs, each step punctuated by the muted bump of weight against wood. I set it by the front door and move through the house out of habit.
Living room — still and quiet, faint trace of last night’s coffee lingering.
Kitchen — counters wiped clean, stainless steel gleaming in the early light.
Dining nook — chairs tucked in perfectly, table bare.
I check each window, pressing my fingers against the latches. I check the sliding glass door, and the back entrance. Then I set the alarm.
Not because I live in a dangerous neighborhood. I don’t.
The street is quiet, lined with old maples and well-kept homes. Neighbors wave from their porches. Holiday wreaths hang neatly on doors. Porch lights glow warm at night. But empty houses during the holidays are invitations.
And I worked too hard for this home — this sanctuary I made for myself so close to campus — to leave it careless.
I press my palm against the last window. The glass is cold against my skin.
Everything is locked. Everything is in order.
And yet nothing inside me feels settled. Not when every quiet moment threatens to fill itself with her.
Lottie.
Even now, with distance already beginning, with silence stretching ahead of me… she lingers like a scent that won’t fade.
I shake my head sharply and grab my keys.
Cade and Jordan are waiting.
And maybe — if I’m lucky — a week of noise and family will sand down the sharp edges inside me.
I pull on my coat and hat, the familiar weight settling over my shoulders like armor. The house is dim behind me as I grab my suitcase handle and step outside.
The cold hits instantly. Sharp. Clean. Bracing. Snow drifts lazily from the sky, delicate but persistent. Each flake that lands on my face feels like a tiny spark of ice. They cling to my lashes, melt against my cheeks, disappear into the fabric of my hat.
I lock the door and tug the handle twice, muscle memory more than doubt. The deadbolt clicks, loud in the still morning.
My breath fogs as I drag the suitcase down the driveway. The wheels crunch over a thin layer of fresh snow.
I lift it into the trunk, fingers already numbing, and shut it with a dull thud. The air smells metallic and clean — winter distilled into scent. A bit lonely.
I slide into the driver’s seat and close the door quickly, sealing out the wind. The interior is freezing, leather stiff beneath me. I start the engine. The car rumbles awake.
The heater takes its time, as it always does.
For a moment, I just sit there — hands cupped together, shoulders slightly hunched, watching snow spiral past the windshield in slow, lazy arcs.
The world feels suspended as if it froze in this moment.
Maybe I am, too. Because even now, even with cold and distance and a deliberate plan to stay away, the memory of yesterday lingers like phantom heat under my skin.
Her eyes. Her breath.
The way my name sounded in her voice.
I rub my hands together harder, as if friction alone can erase it.
Two weeks. Get it together.
I shift the car into drive and pull away from the curb, forcing my focus onto the road ahead. On the snow. On the steady rhythm of tires over pavement.
Anywhere but the pull that's still humming quietly in my chest.