Page 137 of Impulse Control
Purple — still a suggestion.
And somewhere beneath the noise of all of it, a quiet, terrifying truth settled in. I hadn’t crossed a line because I didn’t know where it was.
I’dcrossedit because, for a second, it felt like theonlyplace I could breathe.
Chapter
Twenty-Five
RACHEL
The next morning arrived like nothing happened, which was the first lie.
The light came in at the same angle it always did, pale and filtered by clouds, turning my kitchen into soft grays and muted gold. The radiator hissed.
Somewhere below me, David was warming up his violin—slow scales that slid through the floorboards like the building itself was stretching awake. There were three places in my apartment where the sound came through cleanest. I’d found them without trying. Of course I had.
Everything sounded normal.
My body did not.
I padded out of the bedroom in Dominic’s heavy sweater that I’d stolen—I’d pulled it out when I got home the night before—bare feet cold against the floor. My phone was where I’d left it on my nightstand, face down like it had done something wrong.
I told myself I wouldn’t check it yet—coffee first, discipline first. I got the water going. I even rinsed the mug.
I almost made it.
Then I went back for the phone like my body had its own priorities.
His name was at the top of my notifications.
A voice note.
My throat tightened before I even touched the screen.
I stood there staring at it, thumb hovering, like if I waited long enough it would turn into something else—an email from René, an alert from my calendar, a harmless reminder that didn’t have feelings attached to it.
It didn’t.
I pressed play.
Dominic’s voice filled my kitchen, warm and low, threaded with that gentle amusement he got when he was trying not to sound like he cared too much.
“Hey, Flash,” he said. A pause, like he could hear my hesitation through the phone. “I got your message. And… I’m really glad you sent it.”
My eyes burned. I blinked hard and focused on the coffee grounds in the filter like they were the only thing keeping me upright.
“I miss you too,” he continued, quieter now. “A lot. I’m not asking for answers you don’t have. I’m not trying to corner you. I just—” Another small pause. “I want to know we’re on the same team.”
My stomach dipped. That word—team—hit like a sucker punch, sharp enough that my hand tightened around the phone until my knuckles went pale.
“And about Thanksgiving,” he added, voice tipping back toward lighter, like he knew he was walking a line. “We don’t have to decide right now. But we should talk about it. I can come to Paris. Or you can come here. Or we meet in the middle and start a new tradition where we eat turkey in an airport lounge and pretend it’s romantic.”
A soft huff of laughter—him at his most Dominic.
Then, gentler again, “Call me when youcan. Not when youhaveto. Okay?”
The message ended.
