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The thread opens, and it’s the same as it’s always been. Message after message stacked on top of each other, a timeline of chaos and inconsistency, of sharp words and reckless thoughts and moments that don’t quite make sense unless you know him the way I do.

None of them answered.

Not one.

Threats. Jokes. Insults. Late-night messages sent at hours when most people are asleep. Random thoughts. Demands. Provocations. Pieces of him scattered across a screen like he doesn’t know how to hold himself together any other way.

And still—

He keeps texting.

No matter how many times I ignore him. No matter how long I leave him with nothing.

He never stops.

My jaw tightens slightly as I scroll, my thumb dragging slowly over the screen, taking it all in without really meaning to. There’s something restless about it, something that settles under my skin in a way I don’t like acknowledging.

Jamie’s voice lingers in the back of my mind, and a quiet breath leaves me as I still my hand, my gaze settling on the last message Maksim sent.

For a moment, I just look at it.

Then, before I can think too much about it, before I can talk myself out of it, I tap into the text box. My fingers hover briefly over the screen, hesitation flickering in a way I’m not used to.

Are you done destroying my property, or should I expect something else tonight?

I stare at the message for a second, something unreadable settling in my chest.

And then, I send it.

Chapter 11

MAKSIM

I’ve read the message twelve times.

Thirteen.

No—fourteen.

At this point, I’m not even reading it anymore. I’m staring at it like it might rearrange itself into something that makes more sense, something that fits the version of reality I’m used to.

I stare at the screen, thumb hovering like I’m about to do something important. I’m not. I’ve been “about to do something” since last night I saw this text from none other than Tristan, that fucking man who occupies my senses.

I let out a quiet laugh, shaking my head as I drop back against the headboard.

“No, yeah,” I mutter to myself. “This is normal. Totally normal. He replies now. That’s a thing we do.”

It’s not. It’s absolutely not.

Tristan doesn’t reply.

I talk.

He doesn’t.

And somehow, that’s always been enough to keep me circling back.

So this?