Page 22 of Second Quarter Comeback
That last part will always be seared in my heart. He said it like it was nothing. Like I was nothing.
And now? Now, he’s living in the penthouse next to mine.
The adrenaline coursing through me doesn’t fade, not even a couple of hours after the encounter. I try to focus on organizing, on making sure the movers set things up exactly as I asked. But as I step into the elevator with another box, I freeze.
There he is.
Killion Crawford. Sweaty, shirtless under a zip-up hoodie, with gym shorts slung low on his hips.His hair is damp, his skin gleaming, and I hate the way my body responds—like it’s some kind of Pavlovian reflex. My pulse quickens, my cheeks flush, and every nerve in my body feels like it’s buzzing.
He glances over at me, and the corner of his mouth twitches. He knows. Damn it, he knows. The air between us feels thick, almost suffocating, as the elevator doors close.
The silence stretches, the tension palpable. I shift the box against my hip, determined not to meet his gaze. But I can feel him watching me, his presence a gravitational pull I can’t escape.
When the elevator reaches the penthouse floor, Killion steps out first. The moment lingers, his gaze flicking back to me as he walks toward his door. My hands tremble as I adjust the box, the weight suddenly unbearable.
“Need help with that?” he asks, his voice lower than I remember, rougher, with an edge that sends an unwelcome shiver down my spine.
“I’m fine,” I say, my tone clipped as I push past him toward my door.
Killion doesn’t take the hint. He steps closer, unhurried, and suddenly it feels like the world has narrowed to just the two of us. His presence is magnetic, overwhelming, and I hate how much I notice—how much I feel.
Don’t feel, Camille. Not for him.
“Stay in your lane, Crawford,” I warn, my voice louder now.
“I’m just trying to help,” he replies, his tone infuriatingly calm.
“Which I don’t need,” I snap, struggling to keep my composure.
“Cam, we’re neighbors now. Don’t you think?—”
“Camille,” I correct, cutting him off. “The name is Camille. And from what I’ve heard, New York neighbors are supposed to ignore each other. So why don’t we do that? I’ll be out of here in a few months, a year, tops. You do you, I’ll keep to myself.”
His eyes narrow, his jaw tightening. “Are you alone?” he asks, his voice a little too casual.
That’s a weird question. Like he wants me to invite him or . . . I’m not sure what he means with that question but I answer, “No. Ben should be here tomorrow.”
His expression shifts, a flicker of something—hurt? Anger?—crossing his face. “Oh, there’s a Ben,” he says, stepping back like I just punched him in the gut.
“Yes. A Benedict,” I say coolly, adding, “He’ll be friendly, as long as you are.”
Killion’s lips press into a thin line, and after a moment, he nods. “I can be friendly,” he says, his voice softer now. “Welcome to New York.”
His words are polite, almost casual, but they linger long after he disappears into his apartment. I close my door and lean against it, exhaling sharply.
This can’t be happening. Not here. Not now. I spentyears rebuilding myself after Killion Crawford dumped me. Years convincing myself that what we had was a teenage fantasy—a mistake I could learn from and leave behind.
But now he’s here. Living next door. And there’s no safety net, no distance to protect me from the man who seems like he still has the power to unravel me with a single look.
Later,as the last box is unpacked and the movers finally leave, I step onto the balcony with a glass of wine, the cool air brushing against my skin. The city hums below, alive and relentless, its lights stretching endlessly into the horizon. It’s overwhelming and exhilarating, and if I weren’t already emotionally wrung out, I might appreciate it more.
I toy with my phone, tempted to call Zindy or anyone, really. But the three-hour time difference means all my West Coast friends are probably having dinner with their families or binge-watchingLove Islandwithout me. By the time they’re free to talk, I’ll either be asleep or lying awake, replaying today’s train wreck in my head.
I hear a noise from the other side of the balcony—a soft murmur of a phone call, the distinct clink of glass against metal. My stomach tightens. Of course, he’s out here. The divider between our spaces isn’t exactlyreassuring, reaching just to my hip. Too low to be comforting, too high to pretend I’m oblivious.
Before I can stop myself, my gaze drifts toward his side. And there he is—Killion Crawford, leaning against the railing like he owns the damn night. One hand holds a glass, the other a phone pressed to his ear, his broad shoulders impossibly relaxed, as if the weight of the world doesn’t dare touch him.
He murmurs something into the phone, his voice low and smooth, then pulls it away, ending the call with a quick swipe of his thumb. The device disappears into his pocket, and he takes a slow sip from his glass, his eyes fixed on the skyline like it’s just for him.
