Between Us

☆ part forty one ☆

The first thing I felt when I opened my eyes was the pounding in my head, a dull, relentless ache that made me groan and press my palm against my forehead. It was like my skull was trying to split in two. The second thing I felt was disorientation, a fleeting moment of confusion as I stared at the slightly unfamiliar ceiling.  Then I remembered. Lark's room. Lark's bed. I sat up slowly, wincing as the headache sharpened at the movement. The blankets slid down my body, and I realized I was wearing one of Lark's oversized t-shirts and a pair of her soft pajama shorts. The faint scent of her detergent clung to the fabric, comforting in a way I couldn't put into words.

My gaze shifted to the bedside table, where a glass of water and two painkillers waited for me. The sight made my chest tighten, the ache in my head momentarily forgotten. It was such a simple gesture, but it spoke volumes. Even after everything I'd done last night, Lark still thought to take care of me. I reached for the water and painkillers, swallowing them both quickly before setting the glass back down. The cold liquid soothed my dry throat, but it did nothing for the heavy feeling settling in my chest. The memories from the night before were hazy, fragments of moments piecing together in my mind like a half-finished puzzle. The party. The drinks. Lark and Chloe in the garden. My stomach twisted as the realization hit me.

I made a fool of myself.

I'd left her alone at the party, too caught up with my old cheerleader friends to notice—or care—that she didn't know anyone there. I'd left her vulnerable, and when I saw her talking to Chloe, I lashed out. I let my insecurities take over, said things I didn't mean, and hurt the one person who always put me first. "God, I'm an idiot," I whispered, pressing my hands over my face. I sat there for a moment, the weight of my actions pressing down on me. Guilt coiled tightly in my chest, suffocating and unrelenting. I hated how I'd acted, how I let my fears and jealousy control me. But the worst part was remembering the way Lark looked at me last night—the hurt in her eyes, the way she'd turned away and told me she wasn't going to argue with me while I was drunk. She didn't yell or get angry. She just... shut down. And it was my fault. I dropped my hands and looked around the room, half expecting Lark to be sitting somewhere nearby. But the room was empty, eerily quiet except for the faint sound of birds chirping outside. I wanted to find her, to apologize, to tell her how sorry I was for everything. But as I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, the door creaked open.

My breath caught in my throat as Lark walked in, a plate of pancakes balanced in each hand. She looked so casual, her hair tied back in a loose bun, her oversized sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder. Her sweatpants were slightly rumpled and decorated by dog stray dog hair. She looked like home, and it made my chest ache. "Morning, soph," she said, her voice soft and steady.

"Morning," I croaked, my voice barely audible.

She walked over to the small desk in the corner of her room, setting the plates down carefully before turning back to me. Her smile was warm, but it didn't reach her eyes, and that small detail hit me harder than I expected. "Headache?" she asked, tilting her head slightly. I nodded, unable to find my voice. She gestured toward the bedside table. "Took the painkillers?"

"Yeah," I managed to say, my throat dry.

"Good," she said simply. She sat down on the edge of the bed, her weight causing the mattress to dip slightly. Her hands rested in her lap, and she glanced at me briefly before looking away. It wasn't like her. Lark was always so sure of herself, so confident. Seeing her like this—reserved, guarded—made the guilt in my chest double.

"I..." I started, my voice breaking. She looked at me, her expression softening just slightly. "I'm sorry," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

Her brows furrowed, and she tilted her head again, like she wasn't sure she'd heard me right. "For what?" she asked, her tone careful.