Cleo snatches the baseball bat from the floor and grabs my wrist, dragging me toward the bedroom with surprising strength for someone who claims yoga is too strenuous and once got winded climbing two flights of stairs.
"Move, move, move," she hisses, keeping her eyes locked on Adrian during our entire retreat. She's wielding that bat like she's guarding state secrets, and honestly, given what Adrian knows about my personal life, that might not be far from the truth.
"Cleo, what are you…"
"Tactical retreat," she whispers urgently, pulling me through the doorway. "Never show weakness to the enemy."
The moment we're inside my bedroom, she slams the door with enough force to rattle the walls and immediately starts pacing like a caged tiger. The baseball bat remains clutched in her white-knuckled grip, and she looks like she's seriously considering using it.
"What the actual fuck, Sophie?!"
The words explode out of her with five months' worth of suppressed frustration.
"When did Satan's Literature Professor escape whatever academic purgatory he was banished to? And why is he in our living room looking at our shit like he owns it? If he rummaged through our underwear, I swear to god..."
"He sent me a note," I admit quietly. "Five days ago."
Cleo stops pacing so abruptly she nearly trips over her own feet. “FIVE DAYS AGO? And you're just mentioning this now?!"
"I tried to tell you earlier, but…"
"But nothing!"
She waves the bat for emphasis, and I make a mental note to stay out of swinging range.
"We live together, Sophie! We share a bathroom! I've seen you cry over romantic comedies! How do you keep the return of your psychologically devastating ex-professor a secret for five days?"
"Because I didn't know what to say!" The confession comes out louder than I intended. "What was I supposed to tell you? 'Hey Cleo, remember that man who systematically dismantled my sense of self? Well, he's back and he sent me underwear!'"
"HE SENT YOU WHAT?"
I gesture vaguely toward my dresser, where the black lace panties lie hidden in the top drawer like evidence of a crime I can't bring myself to report.
"Jesus Christ," she breathes, sinking into my desk chair. The bat finally lowers, though she doesn't let go of it entirely.
"I know, okay? I know I should have told you. But I was scared," I whisper. "Scared that if I said it out loud, it would make it real. That I really am as pathetic as everyone thinks."
The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything we haven't said. When Cleo finally speaks, she sets the bat aside and moves to sit beside me on the bed.
"Oh, honey. You're not pathetic. You're traumatized. There's a difference."
"Is there? Because from where I'm sitting, it feels like the same thing."
"No, it's not." Her voice turns fierce, protective. "Pathetic is what Adrian is—a grown man who preys on students because he can't handle an equal relationship. You? You're a survivor trying to figure out how to trust again."
"I don't feel like a survivor. I feel like I'm drowning."
"Then let me throw you a fucking life preserver!" Cleo grabs my hands, forcing me to look at her. "Stop trying to handle this alone. Stop protecting me from your problems. I'm stronger than you think, and you're worth fighting for."
Tears sting the corners of my eyes. "Even when I make terrible decisions?"
"Especially then. Though for the record, if you ever keep something this big from me again, I will use this bat for its intended purpose."
Despite everything, I laugh. "Noted."
"Good. Now, are you ready to deal with Professor Psychological Warfare, or do you need a few more minutes to process?"
I take a shaky breath, trying to center myself. "I'm ready."
When we return to the living room, Adrian hasn't moved from his position by the bookshelf. His eyes immediately track the baseball bat still clutched in Cleo's hands, and that familiar smirk plays at the corners of his mouth.
"Planning to try out for the softball team?" he asks her, voice carrying that maddening amusement I remember too well.
Cleo glares at him with the intensity of a thousand suns. "Planning to defend my best friend from manipulative assholes who break into apartments."
"I didn't break in. The door was unlocked."
"Bullshit," I say automatically, then pause. Had I forgotten to lock it this morning? Between the coffee disaster and the stress of seeing Cassian again, my routine might have been thrown off.
"Language, princess," Adrian chides gently, and the familiar dynamic makes my skin crawl and sing simultaneously.
Cleo looks like she's not sure whether to accept the apology or swing for the fences.
"I'm going to my room," she announces finally. "But I'm leaving my door open. And keeping this bat where I can reach it."
She disappears down the hallway, leaving me alone with the man who'd haunted five months of my dreams and nightmares in equal measure.
"She's protective," Adrian observes, settling onto my couch like he belongs there. "I like that. You need people in your corner."
"What are you doing here, Adrian?" My voice comes out steadier than I feel, and I'm surprised by my own calm. "Where have you been? Why aren't you in jail?"
"The charges were dropped," he says. "Insufficient evidence. Turns out accusations without proof don't hold up in court."
"And Vaughn?"
Something darker flickers across his expression. "Dr. Vaughn is dealing with her own complications."
The way he says it makes me wonder what kind of complications, but I don't push. I'm not sure I want to know.
"Five months, Adrian. Five months of nothing, and then you just show up in my living room?"
"I couldn't stay away," he admits, and there's something raw in the words. But underneath the admission lies something else, something that feels hollow. Like hunger disguised as affection, masquerading as choice.
I study his face, looking for signs of the man who'd once made me feel like the center of the universe. He's still beautiful, still magnetic, still capable of making my pulse race with nothing but a look.
But something has shifted inside me. The desperate hurt that had consumed me when he left isn't there anymore. The wound has scarred over, and reopening it feels like a choice rather than an inevitability.
"I need you to leave," I say quietly, surprised by my own calm.
Adrian's composure cracks slightly, genuine surprise flickering across his features. "Sophie."
"Please," I continue, and my voice doesn't waver. "I'm not angry, I just need you to go."
He studies my face, searching for cracks in my composure, for the girl who used to fall apart at his slightest disapproval. When he finds none, something shifts in his expression—respect, maybe, or disappointment.
After a long moment, he nods once and moves toward the door with that same controlled grace I remember.
"I won't be gone long this time, princess," he says, pausing in the doorway. "I promise."
The door closes behind him with a soft click, leaving me standing in my living room, surprisingly intact.
From down the hallway, I hear Cleo's voice: "Did you just kick Adrian Lewis out of our apartment?"
"Yeah," I call back, sinking onto the couch he'd just vacated. "I think I did."