She doesn’t open the door right away.

Fair. I wouldn’t either if someone accused me of dating them for insider intel like we were in a goddamn spy movie. I was a dick. No way around it.

But the second the door finally cracks open—just enough to see her face, tear-blotched and blotchy—I know I’m never fucking doing that again.

“Hey,” I say. Real quiet.

She eyes the basket in my arms like it’s ticking. “What is that?”

“Peace offering. Guilt offering. Groveling-on-my-knees level apology. Taxes for pissing of the student body president Take your pick.”

It’s stupidly extra. Ribbon-wrapped and overflowing. Jellycat plushies spilling over the sides. A Tiffany’s box tied like it came from an old money catalogue. Her favorite French vanilla coffee from that overpriced café in town, the chocolate-covered strawberries she likes with the white drizzle, the Hershey kisses she eats during late-night study sessions. A stack of books she wouldn’t shut up about last week. And two Hamilton tickets, orchestra row. Because I listen. Even when she thinks I don’t.

She bites her lip.

“There’s also this,” I add, pulling out the album I made—vinyl-sleeve style, thick with intent. The index page is hand-written, messy as hell. Her side: Billie, Phoebe, Florence, Mitski. The sad girl squad. The cry-in-the-bath playlist.

And mine.

The second half’s me. Every song I’ve made about her. For her.

“It’s alphabetical because I know that’s, like, your thing,” I mumble, scratching the back of my neck.

She’s already blinking fast, clutching the coffee like it’s a lifeline.

“You still think I was using you?” she whispers.

I step closer. “No. I was scared. That’s different.”

She lets the tears fall this time. Doesn’t wipe them away. Just launches herself into my chest like I’m home. Like I’m hers.

I bury my face in her hair and whisper, “I trust you.”

Because it goes both ways.

And loving her means letting her in—even if the doors she walks through are ones I swore I’d keep locked.