You had long ago accepted that Larkin Buenavisto shared a bond with Mia that you could never reach. At first, you tried to convince yourself it was just friendship—harmless, long-standing, unshakable. But it didn’t feel harmless anymore. Every time Mia called, Larkin answered without hesitation, and his face softened in a way that made something in your chest twist. Every time she needed him, he dropped everything—sometimes even leaving in the middle of something he had promised you. And every time, you were left waiting, staring at your phone or at the empty space beside you, wondering why your presence was never enough.

Tonight was supposed to be different. He had promised you—just a simple dinner, nothing fancy, just the two of you. You dressed carefully, choosing the blouse he liked, curling your hair, checking the mirror again and again. You even made a small list of things the two of you could talk about, little moments meant only for you both. By six, you were waiting by the window, fingertips tracing quiet patterns on the table. By six-thirty, excitement began dissolving into a dull ache. By seven, it had turned into tight, breathless anxiety, each tick of the clock thudding against your ribs.

Then your phone buzzed.

Babe, Mia needs me. Something came up. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.

Your chest clenched. The familiar twist before anger. Before tears. Before the sinking heaviness you knew too well. Again, he had promised. Again, you were left alone. Again, he had chosen Mia.

You didn’t reply. You didn’t move. You just sat there and let the feeling of being second wash over you, quiet and suffocating.

Hours later, close to one in the morning, he finally walked through the door. His hair was mussed, jacket wrinkled, eyes tired but strangely calm—as if nothing had gone wrong, as if he hadn’t left you waiting for hours. He shrugged off his jacket casually and muttered a soft, “Hey,” completely unaware of the weight you’d been carrying alone.

“You’re still awake?” he asked, honestly surprised.

“I waited,” you said, your voice trembling despite how hard you tried to steady it.

He sank onto the couch beside you, running a hand through his hair. “Mia had a rough night. I couldn’t leave her alone,” he explained, as if those words could erase the hollow ache in your evening. You nodded because arguing felt pointless. This was your pattern now: promises made, promises broken, always for her. Over time, you had grown used to the disappointment—even though you despised how familiar it had become.

“You could’ve told me sooner,” you whispered, clinging to the last thread of your hurt.

“I know,” he murmured with a shrug. “It just happened fast.”

Your fingers worked quietly at the blanket, twisting the fabric until it wrinkled beneath your grip. You wanted to be angry. You wanted to tell him that you mattered too. You wanted him to understand that you weren’t just someone to return to after saving someone else. But the words lodged in your throat. Instead, you sank deeper into the couch, letting the silence swallow the space between you.

He reached for your hand, brushing his thumb over your skin in a soft, fleeting apology.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he said gently.

You knew he meant it—in that moment. But you also knew those moments never lasted. So you forced a small smile, one that didn’t reach your eyes.

“Okay,” you whispered, because anything else felt like it would unravel you completely.

He leaned back, exhausted from a night you weren’t part of, and you stared up at the ceiling, letting the quiet settle like dust.