I let the apartment door slam behind me after a miserable day in court. The trial ended with a loss for my client. Which, as usual, meant my client accusing me of not working hard enough because I got paid the same no matter the outcome. I should be used to it by now, but the words still sting every time. Instead of heading back to my office to fill out the mountains of post–trial paperwork, I just went home. All I wanted was to curl up on the couch with Anders and a stiff drink.

After changing from my work clothes to a t–shirt and a pair of sweatpants, I pour myself a scotch on the rocks, and head to the living room. No sign of Anders, which is a good thing for once. In the three months since our talk, Anders has made a dramatic change, throwing himself into his studies and working hard to repair our relationship. He'd turned his bedroom into a makeshift office and crawled into bed beside me every night. Although my friendship with Aedan has suffered for it, staying with Anders had been the right decision. I'm happy and Anders is happy, and in time, Aedan will be happy too.

I reach for my phone to send Anders a text about dinner, but it isn't where I'd tossed it. I roll my eyes. This couch eats everything if you leave it there for more than two minutes. I set my scotch on the table and dig around in the cushions, shoving my hand down to reach deep into the cracks. My finger brushes plastic and I try to hook the object with my finger, but it slips further away so I grab the cushion, yank it from the couch, and toss it to the floor then stand there, open–mouthed, staring.

There has to be a good explanation for this, but I'm sure not coming up with one. As far as I'm aware, the only woman who's been in my apartment any time in the last six months is my sister, and she certainly wasn't in any state to leave her lacy underwear wedged beneath the cushions of my couch. Which could only mean one thing.

I grab my phone, carefully avoiding contact with the blue lace brushing the edge of it, and rub it on my shirt. Women's underwear. In my couch. Touching my phone. Which I put on my face. I shudder and wipe my phone on my shirt a second time before grabbing my coat. It's time for some explanations.

Half an hour later, I storm in the door to the nursing school, and march right past reception and through the middle of the library until I find Anders—his lips pressed to the neck of the blonde haired, blue eyed girl perched in his lap.

"What the fuck is going on?"

Anders jerks his head up, eyes wide, and the girl nearly topples to the ground. "Nate. Ah. I can explain."

"Save it. Even you can't talk your way out of this one."

The girl climbs from Anders' lap, straightens her bun, smooths the wrinkles out of what I assume she thinks passes as a dress, and begins gathering her belongings. "I'm going to go," she says, "and let you two sort this out. Anders, I . . . I'll see you in class tomorrow."

Anders doesn't meet my eyes as he grabs his bag, shoves in his scattered papers, and heads out to the parking lot without saying a word. I trail behind him, doing everything in my power to not strangle him while we walk.

"How long has this been going on, Anders? Is this why you're so dedicated to school all of a sudden? Why you're so fired up about staying late and 'studying'?"

"No. Yes. I mean, not all the time. Anna's in my epidemiology class. I thought she hated me. Wouldn't give me the time of day all year, then all of a sudden I start showing up here to study and she's my best friend. She's pretty much failing the class and she asked me to help her out, so I did."

"Can you explain to me how helping a girl study leads to fucking her on my couch?"

"I didn't . . ."

"Don't. Do not lie to my face right now."

"I'm not."

"Bullshit you're not. Look, even if the one useful skill I got from my lawyer–turned–politician father wasn't being able to tell when someone is lying, I have evidence. Do you know how evidence works, Anders? Show it to the jury and they find someone guilty. Well, how's this for evidence? Women's underwear in my couch. Do you even know the last time I saw a girl in her smalls? Sometime in Starkhaven when I was still trying to convince myself that I wanted to fuck girls because my daddy said I had to. So don't fucking lie to my fucking face, Anders."

Anders looks down at the concrete of the sidewalk. "What do you want me to say, Nate? I told you I'd just keep hurting you. I didn't mean for it to happen. Anna needed my help and I gave it to her and she was really grateful. She asked if I wanted . . . Look, I didn't know how to say no to that. She's persistent and she was thanking me and then the next thing you know she climbed on my lap and . . . I didn't mean to hurt you, it just happened."

"It just happened. Good. Fantastic. Fucking fantastic, Anders. For the past three months, I've felt happier than I've been for years. You're studying hard and we're together every night and finally I felt like maybe we were a real fucking couple . . . and then this just happens. I don't know what do to anymore, Anders. I don't know how to make you happy and I don't know how to give you what you want. So, tell me, Anders. Tell me how to be everything you need so you don't need to go find it with other people, Tell me, okay, because I just don't fucking know anymore."

I drop my head, fighting against the swelling in my throat and the pressure behind my eyes. I feel moisture on my cheek, rolling down from behind my eye, and my whispered words come out as a choked sob. "I don't fucking know what to do." I suck in a breath. I can't breathe. My body's weak, ready to collapse as the pressure builds behind my eyes. Don't. Don't cry. Don't lose it. Not here. Not over this. You're better than this. What would Rendon say if he could see you now, sobbing like a baby over something like this? There's a loud crack as I slam my hand hard against the wall, then the world goes white and pain explodes up my arm. Next thing I know, I'm laying on the pavement, tears in my eyes, clutching my arm against my chest.

Anders drops to the ground and grabs me, one arm around my waist, the other at my wrist. His hands feel like white hot steel against my skin and I try to shake him off, but the pain lances through me and I stop. "Nate! Maker, that was stupid. Let me see your hand. We'll need to ice it and splint it before it gets worse."

I yank away from him. "Let go. I don't need your help."

"Look, hate me all you want right now, but I'm not going to let anyone drive home with a broken metacarpal. Ice. Then an x–ray. Then a splint. Up you go."

Anders hooks his arm tighter around my waist and flings my left arm around his own shoulder as he hauls me from the ground. I shove him away and duck out from his grip.

"No. Don't touch me right now. You don't get to touch me."

"Nate."

"I'm done, Anders. Done. I can't do this anymore."

I stalk back to my car and yank the door open, biting my lip to hold in a scream as my hand brushes the steering wheel. Dammit, Anders was right. There's absolutely no way I'm going to be able to turn the key, let alone drive all the way home. So much for making an exit. I fumble my phone out of my pocket and balance it on my leg while I dial.

Aedan's voice is short on the other end, his words clipped. "I'm on my way to work. What do you want?"

"I'm up at the university. Nursing school parking lot. I need you to pick me up."

Silence on the other end then a sigh. "Fine. Be there in fifteen."