Page 74 of Deviant Obsession

I grab the tomato basil, then double back for crackers. And tea. And that dark chocolate she always craves during aftercare. The basket grows heavier with each addition, comfort foods becoming a peace offering I'm not sure she'll even accept.

Back in my car, I set the bags carefully on the passenger seat and gun the engine. Music would usually help drown out my thoughts, but right now the thumping beat that automatically bleeds from the speakers just gives me a headache. Instead, I switch it off and grip the steering wheel until my knuckles go white, trying to plan what I'll say when I see her.

"Just wanted to see you" sounds desperate after she’s been avoiding me. "I was in the neighborhood" is an obvious lie. Everything I rehearse comes out wrong, either too casual or too intense. The Dean she first met would swagger in with cocky confidence, certain of his welcome. But that guy feels like a stranger now.

I make it three blocks before nearly turning around. She clearly wants space—maybe I should respect that. Another two blocks and I almost cave again. This is stupid. I'm being stupid.

But the memory of her voice keeps me going. That last phone call a week ago where she sounded so distant, so unlike herself. If she's really sick, she needs someone to take care of her. If she's not...

I can't finish that thought.

Traffic crawls at every light, stretching the drive into an eternity. Each passing minute amplifies my doubts. What if she won't even open the door? What if Ethan's wrong and this isn'tabout school at all? What if she's finally realized she wants better than two broken men who can't get their shit together?

I park across from her building, killing the engine but making no move to get out. From here, I can see her bedroom window. The lights are on, curtains drawn. She's home at least.

"Get it together," I mutter to myself after I sit for far too long before growing the balls to move. When did I become this pathetic? When did she gain this much power over me?

I know the answer, even if I'm not ready to say it out loud. It happened somewhere between the blindfolds and the quiet conversations. Between the scenes and the stolen moments of tenderness. Between my mark on her skin and the way she’s carved herself into my soul.

When I finally make it there, my knuckles hover over her door for what feels like hours before I finally force myself to knock. I wait, straining to hear movement inside.

Nothing.

But I saw her shadow pass the window just minutes ago. She's in there, probably hoping I'll give up and leave. I knock again, softer this time.

"Rhea?" I keep my voice gentle, like I'm trying not to spook a wild animal. "I know you're home, babygirl. Just want to make sure you're okay."

The silence stretches until I'm ready to admit defeat. Then…footsteps, slow and hesitant. The lock clicks, and the door opens just enough for me to see her face.

My stomach flips over. She looks exhausted, dark circles beneath those emerald eyes I've been dreaming about. Her hair hangs in messy waves like she's been tangling her fingers in it repeatedly. The oversized sweater she's drowning in makes her seem smaller somehow, more fragile.

"Dean." Her voice comes out raspy, either from disuse or actual illness. "I told you I was sick."

"Yeah, you did." I hold up the grocery bags, aiming for a casual smile though my pulse is racing. "That's why I brought supplies. Can't have my girl suffering alone."

She bites her lip, glancing between me and the bags like she's solving a complex equation. I wait, barely breathing, until she finally steps back from the door.

"You didn't have to come. I'm fine, really."

"Humor me?" I move past her into the apartment, noting the blanket nest on the couch, textbooks scattered everywhere. "Let me at least heat up this soup. I stood in the grocery store for ages like an idiot until I chose one."

A ghost of a smile touches her lips, gone so fast I might have imagined it. "You're not an idiot."

"Debatable." I head for her tiny kitchen, desperate to keep my hands busy. "Where's Nat?"

"Working." She hovers in the doorway, watching me dig through cabinets for a pot. "Late shift at O'Malley's."

The conversation feels forced, stilted. Like we're strangers making small talk instead of...whatever we are to each other now. I focus on pouring soup into the pot, trying not to let her see how much this distance is killing me.

"You should sit," I say over my shoulder. "Rest. I've got this."

She doesn't move. When I glance back, she's staring at the floor, fingers twisting in her sweater sleeves. Everything about her screams that she wants to run.

"Dean..." The way she says my name makes my heart drop. Like she's working up to something I don't want to hear.

"Soup first," I cut her off quickly. "Whatever's going on in that beautiful head of yours can wait until you've eaten something."

Please, I add silently.Please just let me take care of you for a few minutes before you break my heart.

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