Chapter 23

Alan settled deeper into his worn-out couch, stretching his legs across the cluttered coffee table scattered with loose notes and a laptop humming softly. It was Saturday morning, barely an hour or two since Madison had slammed the door behind her, leaving the apartment thick with the echo of their shared unease.

He’d jumped in the shower quick to rinse off the clammy sweat from waking up, then dove into this group engineering project—a seismic-resistant structure model he actually enjoyed tinkering with for once. No stupid pressure, just code to hack at and simulations to run, with a steaming mug of black coffee close at hand. The place was quiet, washed in pale light seeping through the half-lowered blinds, and for the first time in days, he felt almost relaxed, his mind tangled in equations instead of the storm churning inside him since ... Beca.

A sharp knock at the door jolted him, pulling a muffled “Shit” from his lips as he set the laptop aside. Baffled, he furrowed his brow—no one was supposed to drop by, and Madison had bolted without saying if she’d swing back. He dragged himself up, shuffling across the tiny living room while dodging a teetering stack of textbooks, and cracked the door open cautiously.

There stood Rebecah, all bright and beaming, her smile wide like she’d shown up for an impromptu brunch. She was in casual workout gear that hugged her athletic frame: tight black leggings clinging to her firm thighs and a matching sports bra that accentuated the swell of her breasts, her flat, toned stomach bare to the cool hallway air.

She carried a faint scent of light sweat, as if she’d jogged over. Alan froze for a beat, stunned, his eyes darting quickly down the empty corridor behind her—just peeling walls and a neighbor’s closed door. “Fuck, Beca, you can’t just show up like this! What the hell are you doing here?” he hissed in a low, strained voice, his pulse surging with a rush of shock laced with that gut-twisting edge of alarm.

She laughed, a light, mocking burst that echoed in the hallway’s hush, and pushed past him without waiting, slipping inside like the place was hers.

“What, you’re not alone? ... Hold on,” she said, narrowing her eyes as she scanned his face with that vicious insight he was getting way too familiar with. She read him like an open page, a triumphant grin spreading across her lips. “She came over?”

Alan said nothing, jaw clenched tight, but his silence spoke volumes—he looked away, a faint flush creeping up his cheeks from the embarrassment.

“No way!? Awesome, so it’s done?” she exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with an almost childish thrill, like she’d just heard some everyday good news. Alan let out a reluctant “Yeah,” low and awkward, still pissed at her barging in—the way she claimed his space as her playground grated on him like a physical violation. “Yes!” Beca replied, genuinely pleased, a little chuckle bubbling from her throat as she stepped further into the living room. “See, it wasn’t that hard.”

Alan felt a biting comeback rise in his throat—something like “Easy for you, maybe”—but he held it together, drawing a deep breath to keep the bubbling frustration from spilling over. Instead, he crossed his arms, trying to reclaim some control. “Look, Rebecah, I’ve got a ton of work to do ... Can we talk about this later?” She fixed him with a serious stare then, wary and intense, lingering on him with a chilling scrutiny, like she was sizing up some unseen threat.

It unnerved him instantly—that shadow in her gaze, the heavy silence that too vividly recalled the hold she had over him, and he backpedaled fast, stammering a forced “I mean, whatever you want, haha...” with a nervous laugh that rang hollow in the charged air. Beca shook her head, her smile snapping back like nothing had happened, and she plopped down on the couch uninvited. “I knew you’d pull it off. Come on, tell me how you did it.”

Alan hesitated for a second, that discomfort slithering beneath his skin like an insistent itch, but he gave in and started explaining, his voice flat as he skimmed over the details to avoid reliving it all too sharply.

They’d sunk into the couch side by side, the air still thick with that unseen strain clinging to Alan’s skin like a chill he couldn’t shake.

He’d just laid out the evening for her—the bare essentials, in a flat monotone that sidestepped the raw edges: how he’d faked a breakdown to lure her over, the tears, the apologies, steering clear of the messier bits where Madison had crumbled against him, their bodies brushing too close for comfort.