= Sarah POV =
The crisp night air hit me like a slap, sharp and sobering. I barely had time to exhale before I was yanked back against a leather jacket. My breath hitched as Chris shoved me against the cold brick wall, her hands pinning mine above my head.
"I can give you passion," she rasped, her voice low and fraying at the edges. Her face was so close that I could feel the heat of her breath, acrid and smoky. "I have passion overflowing—I could drown you in it."
I turned my head sharply, grimacing. "God, Chris, brush your teeth first. You reek. Why the hell did you take up smoking?" I coughed, the stench burning my nostrils.
Her grip faltered, and she backed away, her chest heaving. Without a word, she yanked the cigarette pack from her jacket and hurled it to the ground. The action was forceful, but her hand trembled as she raked her fingers through her hair.
"Because I was going crazy, okay?" she snapped, her voice cracking as she sank to a crouch. "You left. You just…vanished. You blocked me everywhere. What the hell was I supposed to do, Sarah? These—" She gestured at the discarded pack. "—were the only things keeping me sane."
The raw anguish in her voice twisted something deep inside me. I sighed and lowered myself in front of her, crouching in the shadow of the streetlight.
"Let's go home," I said softly, extending a hand.
Chris lifted her head, her expression crumpling into something almost childlike, raw and vulnerable. "Which home?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "Mine or Heather's?"
The question hit me like a slap, and my stomach churned. Of course she knew about Heather. Of course she'd figured out where I lived. The realization settled over me like a lead weight.
"Yours," I said finally, my voice strained. "And if it means that much to you, you can get my stuff tomorrow. Since you already know where it is."
Chris hesitated, then took my hand. Her fingers were ice cold and unsteady as I pulled her to her feet.
"Where's your car?"
She nodded toward the parking lot, and we walked in silence. My stomach twisted again when I saw where she'd parked—right next to Heather's car. Of course. At this point, nothing would surprise me. She could've planted a tracker, and I wouldn't even be shocked.
I slid into the passenger seat, the leather cold against my skin. Chris climbed behind the wheel, and we drove off, the silence between us suffocating.
"So, was I right?" I ventured, my voice barely cutting through the tense air. "Are you on leave?"
"No." Her tone was clipped, her eyes fixed on the road. "I quit."
"You quit?" My voice rose, disbelief mingling with dread. "Chris, it's been three weeks!"
Her grip on the wheel tightened, her knuckles turning white. "Yeah, well," she said flatly, "I thought about killing myself, but then I realized that if I died, I wouldn't be able to see you anymore."
The words were delivered so matter-of-factly that I felt like I'd been punched in the gut.
"So, I figured," she continued, her voice unnervingly calm, "if I wasn't working, I'd have more time. I could watch you walk to work from across the café. Watch you get into Heather's car and drive away. Hell, I could even sit in the parking lot of Heather's apartment and watch the light in your window go out at night when you went to bed. And you know what?" She let out a humorless laugh. "It's actually been a pretty good three weeks. Not gonna lie."
Her smile was thin, brittle, and entirely devoid of light.
I turned my face away, bile rising in my throat. The streetlights outside blurred into streaks of gold as the car sped through the quiet streets. My hands trembled in my lap, and I clenched them to keep from falling apart.
This wasn't just desperation. It wasn't just love. This was something darker, something that felt like it could consume us both if I let it.
I stared out the window, my reflection fractured and distorted in the glass. I had only wanted a little space, a little time to clear my head. But while I had been finding clarity, Chris had been slipping further and further into madness.