Page 37 of Until Forever Falls

His voice interrupts my spiral. “Dylan.”

I force my attention back to him. “Yeah?”

“Breathe. No need to explain. I’ll get you a new key.”

“I’m sorry, I just—” My throat works around the words. “I hate feeling like an inconvenience.”

“Pretty sure you couldn’t be one if you tried.”

He leaves to grab a new key, and by the time I finally step inside, gravity pulls me straight to the bed. I drag a pillow over my face, like it might muffle the relentless pounding that refuses to let go. The cool pressure is a brief mercy but my mind is fevered, running itself ragged in the dark. The headache will fade. The ache in my chest won’t—not until I stop running from it.

The sheets twist around me like restraints, trapping me in this restless purgatory. My limbs scream for rest, running circles around my exhaustion like a cruel game.

Sleep, fickle as ever, must have stolen me away for just a moment—long enough for the sharp ping of my phone to yank me back, sending a jolt through my half-conscious body.

Squinting against the invasive flow, I rub my face before reaching for my phone. I fumble for it, but the moment my eyes adjust to the words on the screen, the air in the room seems to thin.

Brooks:Hey, uh…would you maybe want to grab breakfast? No pressure, just thought I’d ask.

My gut reaction is to turn him down. I barely made it through last night, but the emptiness in my stomach tightens like a fist. Begrudgingly, I type out my response, surrendering to the fact that avoiding him won’t fill the empty space in my heart—or my stomach.

Dragging myself out of bed feels like a monumental effort, but the promise of a hot shower wins out. Steam clouds the mirror as my dark jeans and a fitted white cardigan come together as the day’s armor.

My reflection staring back is less than inspiring—pale, worn down, teetering on the edge of exhaustion. I rub at my cheeks, hoping to bring some life back into them, but it doesn’t help. With an exasperated sigh, I make my way to the lobby. As it comes into view, so does last night’s vase disaster, mortification trailing close behind.

“Morning,” Brooks calls out as he rounds the corner, his voice carrying that familiar unruffled comfort, like an old sweatshirt, broken in just right. The dark jacket he’s wearing fits him well, structured but not stiff, the sort of thing he probably threw on without a second thought. Beneath it, a white hoodie softens the sharp edges, fabric stretched slightly across his shoulders. He looks like the kind of warmth you want to sink into, the kind of trouble you know better than to chase—but do anyway.

Meanwhile, I feel like I’m holding my breath in a room with no oxygen.

“Ready to go?”

“Yeah,” I say, smoothing a hand over my shirt like it might press the rest of me back into place. “Food sounds good.” If nothing else, it’s a distraction. One I desperately need.

He shifts, leaving just enough space for me to walk past. For a breath, I don’t move.

Food. Just focus on that. One plate. A simple, forgettable thing.

At least, it should be simple—picking up a fork and chewing—but the whole thing feels like trying to breathe with my head underwater.

As we walk, the ink curling around one of his wrists pulls my attention. The intricate silhouettes of trees, dark and deliberate, seem almost alive against his skin, with tiny stars scattered between the branches like distant embers. Something about it stirs an allure I can’t quite ignore. The urge to reach out and trace the lines, to ask about their meaning, rises before I can stop it.

A deep breath steadies me, but the thought remains. My fingers twitch at my side as I focus on the pavement beneath my feet, willing myself to stay grounded. It feels safer this way—safer not to act on the impulse, not to let him see just how much I’m still drawn to him.

Tracing the edge of my left collarbone through my shirt, I press down as if I could force the memory etched into my own skin deeper or maybe even erase it altogether. But the tattoo remains, heavy in ways ink shouldn’t be.

When his truck comes into view, a faint sting of disappointment catches me off guard. I’d been bracing for the sight of his old pickup from high school—a relic of long drives and late-night conversations, its faded paint telling stories of its own. Instead, a cement-gray Toyota Tacoma gleams in the morning light, its polished edges and modern design a glaring reminder of how much time has passed. The shift feels jarring, like another piece of the past slipping further away.

Brooks swings the door open, and I step up quickly, tucking my hands beneath my thighs the moment I sit. My stomach gives a quiet growl, a not-so-gentle nudge that breakfast is overdue. Brooks settles in beside me, his fingers tapping once against the wheel before he shifts the truck into gear.

The tires crunch over pavement as we merge onto the road, Rockport spilling past the windows. It’s like looking at an old photograph, the edges faded but the core still intact. Every mile seems to draw my anxiety deeper. This town is a time capsule I’m not sure I’m ready to open.

The second we stop, the past rushes up to meet me—Ruby’s Diner. The name on the weathered sign feels like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, I consider walking back to The Drift. This used to beourplace, where everything felt unshakable. Now, it’s the last place I want to set foot in with him. Regret coils in my chest. Hindsight mocks me. It’s a small town with limited options. I should’ve seen this coming.

I make no move to open the door. My fingers stay curled in my lap, my breath shallow, my pulse a steady drum against my throat. Maybe if I sit still long enough, I won’t have to do this.

Then, the soft click of a handle.

Brooks rounds the truck, his footsteps sure against the pavement. The inside of the cab feels safe, distant—but when my door swings open, the barrier shatters. A rush of air spills in, taming the blaze spreading through me. I grip the seat, but his gaze holds me captive—expectant, patient. He’s not letting me stay here.

---