It had felt like a blessing at first.

After years of her trailing after him—her bright eyes full of unshakable affection, her every gesture a silent plea—Bryce finally had space to breathe. Their mothers had been best friends since high school, the kind of inseparable women who insisted on dragging their kids into the fantasy of a shared future. That fantasy started the day they were born, just minutes apart in the same hospital. It was cute at first—shared birthdays, matching onesies—but somewhere between childhood tea parties and forced middle school dances, it all started to grate on him.

Because she played along. No—she leaned into it. She made heart-shaped cards in elementary school, sat by him on every field trip, and clung to the idea that they were meant to be. Bryce, outnumbered and cornered, fought it with everything he had. He threw tantrums when their mothers scheduled "playdates," teased her relentlessly in school, and rejected every heartfelt confession like it was a trap.

When they ended up at the same college by some cosmic joke, he pretended not to know her. Walked right past her in the quad. Acted like she didn't exist, even when she brought him coffee before class or saved him a seat in the lecture hall.

She never stopped trying. Even after all that, she still showed up. Still smiled at him like he hadn't spent a lifetime pushing her away.

Bryce thought things would finally change when his mom offered to pay for an off-campus apartment his senior year. A little freedom. A little space. No RA breathing down his neck. No her walking in mid-hookup with her soft voice and wide, hurt eyes. He didn't even ask questions—just signed the lease, desperate for some privacy.

But there was a catch. There was always a catch.

The apartment next door? Hers.

The hall smelled like her—lavender and vanilla—and her dumb little welcome mat had paw prints and said "Home is Where the Dog Is." She didn't even have a dog. Bryce started slamming his door louder. Leaving the trash out longer. Making snide comments when she brought over cookies or offered to carpool. He mocked her outfits, her weight, her voice. And every time she flinched, he told himself he didn't care.

Sunday morning, the air was thick with spring rain and clinging humidity. Bryce stood at his door, pretending to check the mail, heart hammering in his chest as headlights finally lit up the parking lot. Her car rolled in, soft and quiet like always, and parked in its usual spot.

She got out with an overnight bag slung over one shoulder, her hair tangled and damp from the rain. She was wearing a baggy t-shirt that wasn't hers and gym shorts she didn't own. There were bruises—no, hickeys—blooming on her neck like dark little signatures.

His stomach turned violently as he stepped out without thinking. "Hey!" he called, too bright, too fast.

She looked up, startled, and then guarded—like she was building walls he couldn't breach.

"I, uh..." he cleared his throat, eyes locked on the fading marks at her collarbone, "I just wanted to apologize. For the other week. That was... shitty of me. I shouldn't have. I—I can make it up to you. I've got the pancake mix you like."

He tried to smile. Tried to look casual. But his fists were clenched at his sides and his jaw was tight and he couldn't stop staring at those marks on her skin that weren't made by him.