Page 115 of The Casting Couch

Two weeks.Fourteen days.One-thousand-and-some change minutes that had crawled by like molasses, every one of them dragging my heart behind it like a busted shopping cart.

And now he was coming home.

Maybe.

I sat up in bed, staring at the ceiling like it owed me answers.The light coming through the window was pale and soft, a morning that felt like a held breath.My apartment was too quiet.And I wanted to change that.

I threw on a t-shirt and wandered into the kitchen, still barefoot.I opened the fridge, closed it, and then opened it again.Nothing had changed.Still eggs, still leftover Thai, still too much La Croix and not enough actual food.

Because here’s the thing: while Bradley was in jail, I went to the Chelsea International Hostel and picked up all his stuff.That meant two duffel bags, a tragically sad toothbrush, a stack of folded jeans, and one black binder full of parole documents and Boys On Film paperwork that made me want to scream and hug him at the same time.I carried it all back here.Stuffed it into the closet like it belonged.

And now I was standing in my kitchen thinking:

Does it?

I couldn’t force him to stay here.I wasn’t stupid—I knew how fragile things still were.But there was no way in hell I was letting him walk out of jail and straight back into the idea that he was on his own.That nobody wanted him.That love came with limits.

Because for me?It didn’t.

And yeah, that scared the crap out of me.

Not because I didn’t mean it.But because I did.I meant all of it.I was in this thing, headfirst, heart-first, possibly idiot-first.

I looked around the apartment.I’d cleaned three times yesterday, then lit a candle that smelled like “mountain air and self-delusion.”I even made space in the bathroom cabinet.Like an actual shelf.For his stuff.Which, in gay boyfriend terms, is basically a marriage proposal.

The clock on the microwave flipped to 9:02 AM.His release was scheduled for 10.

I had time to go over the speech I’d practiced in the mirror twice.

You don’t have to stay.I mean, of course I want you to, but only if you want to.I just figured maybe it’d be easier if you had a place already.Somewhere to land.Somewhere that wasn’t a half-broken cot in a shared hostel room with a guy named Trevor who wears too much body spray to cover for lack of hygiene.

It wasn’t a perfect speech, but it was honest.

And maybe honesty would be enough.

My phone buzzed on the counter, and I snatched it up like it might change everything.

Jack: We’re parking now.You ready?

I stared at the screen, my stomach doing backflips.Yeah, I was ready.

I was also sweating through my shirt.But I was ready.

I texted back:

Me: Yeah.Let’s bring him home.

* * *

The county jail had all the charm of a DMV run by sociopaths.Jack parallel parked with a dramatic flourish, like we were arriving at a red carpet event instead of a place that smelled like despair and institutional-grade bleach.

“You good?”Liam asked from the backseat, leaning forward between us.

“Nope,” I said, unbuckling anyway.“But I’m doing it.”

Jack turned in his seat and gave me a crooked grin.“You look like you’re about to propose to a man fresh out of jail.”

I shot him a look.“Don’t tempt me.”

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