The tension has been building for days. I hide in the workshop.
The canvas in front of me: red bleeding into black, sharp lines. It needs to exist.
I'm so absorbed I don't hear the door open. Don't register presence until Jordan's voice cuts through my concentration.
"I'm leaving. After next weekend."
The brush stills in my hand. "That's ten days."
"I know."
The words sit heavy between us. Final. I set down the brush. Turn to face him.
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I want you to know." His hands are in his pockets. Casual posture that doesn't match the tension in his shoulders. "Because leaving without saying anything felt wrong."
"As opposed to leaving after saying something? That feels right?"
"Maya—"
"No. You show up here to tell me you're running away three days early and expect what? Gratitude? Understanding?" Heat builds in my chest. "You're a coward."
"Maybe I am." He finally steps inside. Closes the door. "But staying is worse. For both of us."
"You don't get to decide what's worse for me."
"Someone has to." His voice hardens. "This thing between us. It's not sustainable."
"I don't care about sustainability. I just care about what's real."
"Real doesn't pay for art school. Real doesn't give you freedom." He moves closer. "I'm leaving so you can have those things."
"How noble." The sarcasm tastes bitter. "You're leaving for my own good. Not because you're terrified of actually committing to something."
"I'm terrified of destroying you." His voice drops. Raw. "Of being the reason you lose everything. Of making you choose between me and the life you deserve."
"What if I choose you?"
The question hangs between us. He looks at me like I've wounded him.
"Don't."
"Why not? Give me one good reason."
"Because I'm not worth it." The admission comes out quiet. Devastated. "Because you're eighteen and brilliant and your whole life is ahead of you. Because in five years you'll look back and realize I was just the first person who touched you after being caged. Not the person you actually want."
"You don't get to tell me what I'll feel in five years."
"Maybe not. But I can see it clearly enough for both of us." His voice hardens. "You think you want me. But you want freedom more. You want art school. You want to create and explore and become whoever you're meant to be. And I'll just be the anchor holding you back." He takes a step closer. "You'll resent me. Maybe not today. Maybe not next year. But eventually."
"So you're leaving to protect me from future resentment." The logic is infuriating. "How convenient for you."
"I'm leaving because staying would be selfish. Because every time I'm near you, I want to touch you. Every time I see you with Grant, I want to destroy something. And if I stay, I will. I'll ruin your engagement, your relationship with your parents, your future. All because I can't control myself around you."
The confession lands heavy. True. I see it written across his face. The wanting he's been fighting. The restraint that's cracking.
"Then don't control yourself."
"Maya—"
"If you're leaving anyway. If this is goodbye. Then stop pretending you don't want this."
The space between us collapses. I move first this time. Cross the distance and kiss him with everything I've been holding back. All the fury and wanting and desperation of knowing he's leaving.
He responds like I've set him on fire. Hands in my hair. Mouth fierce against mine. We stumble backward until my spine hits the workbench.
Paint jars rattle. Canvas falls. His hands trace my sides. My back. I pull him closer until breathing is impossible and nothing exists except this.
The belt presses between us. Reminder that even here, even now, there are barriers. But his hands map what they can reach. My waist. My ribs. The curve where my neck meets shoulder.
Every touch says what words can't. Goodbye. I'm sorry. I wish things were different.
The door opens.
Grant stands in the doorway.
Time freezes. I watch realization move across his face like a visible wound. Shock giving way to understanding giving way to hurt giving way to something harder.
"Jesus Christ." His voice is hollow. "You two. Of course."
I pull away from Jordan. Put space between us. My lips are swollen. Hair disheveled. Guilt written across every line of my body.
Jordan steps forward. "Grant, listen—"
"No. You don't get to talk." Grant's voice shakes. "Maya. Outside. Now."
"Grant, we can discuss this—" Jordan starts.
"I said NOW." Something in Grant's tone makes it clear this is non-negotiable. His eyes promise detonation. Violence. Exposure.
I touch Jordan's arm. "It's okay. Give us a minute."
"Maya—"
"Please."
Jordan looks between us. Jaw tight. Finally steps back.
The moment he's gone, Grant's composure cracks.
"So when we—" He can't finish. Jaw working around words that won't come. "I wasn't your first."
The statement lands like resignation.
"Grant, I'm sorry—"
"No." His hand comes up like a shield. "You don't get to apologize. You let me believe I mattered." His eyes harden into something I don't recognize. "Here's what's going to happen. You're going to stop whatever this is with him. Or I tell your parents you're not a virgin anymore."
My blood runs cold. "You wouldn't."
"Try me." His voice is dead. Empty. "You have until Sunday to decide."
He walks out. Leaving me standing alone with threat hanging like smoke.
Jordan appears seconds later. "What did he say to you?"
His face is tight with concern. With guilt. With everything I can't handle.
"Nothing. Just that he needs time."
"Maya." He steps closer. "What did he say?"
"Nothing that matters." The lie tastes like ash. "He's upset. He has a right to be."
"There's more. I can see it." His eyes search my face. "Tell me."
"I can't." The truth would add guilt to everything Jordan already carries. Would make him blame himself. Would destroy whatever fragile thing still exists between us. "Just trust me. It's handled."
"It doesn't look handled."
"Well it is." I move toward the door. "You should go. You have packing to do. Three days isn't much time."
The reminder lands deliberately cruel. He flinches.
"Maya—"
"Goodbye, Jordan."
He doesn't move. Doesn't speak. The helplessness radiating from him makes my chest ache.
Finally, he leaves.
I sink onto the floor. Surrounded by paint and chaos and the ruins of everything I've touched.
Sunday. I have until Sunday to choose.
Between Jordan who's leaving anyway and Grant who will destroy me.
The choice should be simple.
It's not.