RESTART

71

LANA

The guest room is comfortable—too comfortable. The mattress is soft, the blankets are warm, but my mind won't quiet down. Every time I close my eyes, I just end up staring at the inside of my eyelids, restless.

After what feels like an hour of tossing and turning, I give up.

Slipping out of bed, I push the door open gently, stepping into the dimly lit hallway. The house is silent, the kind of silence that should be peaceful but only makes me feel more awake.

I think Aston went to bed earlier, but as I walk toward the living room, I realize I was wrong.

He's still up.

I pause at the entrance of the room, watching him.

He's sitting on the couch, his posture relaxed but focused. His white dress shirt is slightly unbuttoned at the top, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. A pair of glasses rest on his nose—something I've always found unfairly attractive—while his eyes scan over a stack of documents spread out on the coffee table. The soft glow of the lamp beside him casts shadows across his face, making him look effortlessly sharp, yet oddly at ease.

I almost don't want to disturb him, but when I shift my weight slightly, the floor creaks, giving me away.

His head lifts immediately, eyes locking onto mine.

"You can't sleep?" he asks, his voice low, smooth, carrying a slight huskiness from the late hour.

I shake my head. "Not even a little."

Aston leans back against the couch, stretching out his legs. "Did you try counting sheep?"

I roll my eyes. "Yes, because that's so effective."

The corner of his mouth tugs up. "Fair enough." Then, after a brief pause, he exhales. "Come on, I have an idea."

I raise a brow. "Oh?"

He pushes himself off the couch, rolling his shoulders as he walks past me toward the kitchen. I follow, watching as he grabs a small pot and starts heating up some milk.

"Hot cocoa?" I guess.

He nods. "It always used to help you sleep. Figured it's worth a shot."

I blink.

It's such a small thing, but it makes my chest tighten. The fact that he remembers something as insignificant as that.

I watch him work, stirring the milk, adding cocoa powder, a bit of sugar—he doesn't even measure anything, like he's done this a million times before.

And maybe he has.

For me.

A few minutes later, he hands me a warm mug, steam curling from the surface.

"Come on," he says, nodding toward the terrace.

I follow him outside, stepping into the cool night air. The city lights shimmer in the distance, and the quiet hum of the night surrounds us.

We sit down, the terrace furniture comfortable beneath us. I blow gently on my cocoa before taking a sip, the warmth spreading through me.

For a moment, neither of us speak. It's nice, in a way. Peaceful.

But then, before I can stop myself, I ask the question that's been circling in my mind since that night at the party.

"Why did you actually break up with me?"

Aston stills.

I glance at him, watching as his jaw tenses, his fingers tightening slightly around his mug.

I swallow, but keep my voice steady. "Did you actually stop loving me?"

The words hang between us, heavy, charged.

He exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair before setting his mug down on the table.

And when he finally looks at me, his eyes hold something raw.

Something I'm not sure I'm ready to hear.