Page 71 of Try Line Hearts
Something inside Eli snapped—not loudly. Not all at once.
Just enough.
He stopped short in front of the refrigerator.
Didn’t think. Didn’t wind up.
He hauled off and punched it.
Metal rang sharp and ugly through the apartment. The door buckled inward with a dull, concave thud. Pain flared white-hot across his knuckles—bone-deep, immediate, probably bad.
Eli didn’t make a sound.
He stared at the dent for half a second, blood already beading at the skin, and then—calmly—turned away.
Walked back to the couch.
Sat.
Dropped forward, elbows braced on his knees, hands dangling uselessly for a moment before he brought them together and pressed his forehead into them.
In.
Out.
In through his nose.
Out through his mouth.
He couldn’t cry if he wanted to – he felt nothing other than the sickly sour of that jealous feeling in his gut.
Slow. Controlled. Measured.
His knuckles throbbed in time with his pulse. He didn’t look at them. Didn’t curse. Didn’t shake.
He just breathed.
Let the jealousy sit there, burning and sour, eating at the edges of his ribs.
He told himself—again—that this was what careful looked like.
That this was the cost of wanting someone who didn’t fully belong to himself.
That he could live with it.
The jealousy didn’t disappear.
It just settled in deeper.
Lucas got back to his own apartment and stood in the entryway like he’d forgotten how doors worked.
It was quiet in the particular way expensive places were quiet—thick walls, sealed windows, city noise reduced to a distant hush. The lights from the river made pale stripes on the floor. His suit jacket still smelled like restaurant air and someone else’s perfume.
He stripped his tie off like it had tried to choke him. Tossed it onto the counter. Kicked his shoes off with less care than usual.
His phone buzzed again.
Another tagged photo. Another angle. Another caption.
