Is it possible?

Chapter 11

I covered up my dark under eyes with a bunch of concealer, changed into a comfortable outfit and made my way out of my room.

I walked down the stairs leisurely, barely keeping my eyes open, I felt so tired.

When I glanced into the living room, I froze at the sight of my father sprawled out on the couch. A bottle of vodka in his hand, it was spilling on the floor slowly as he snored into the couch cushion.

My eyes widened and I tried my hardest to be quiet as I walked towards the front door.

I closed the door behind me, only to freeze when I turned and found Vincent waiting there, his expression a mix of anger and something else I couldn't quite place. He stepped out of his car, each stride deliberate and unyielding, his gaze locked on me like I'd committed a personal betrayal.

"Alicia." His voice was sharp, low. "Why the fuck haven't you answered any of my calls?"

I took a shaky breath, feeling the tension roll off him like a storm I wasn't ready for. "I didn't want to bother you guys. I thought... handling it alone was best." My voice sounded thin, my smile barely holding itself together.

"For fuck's sake." He exhaled, scrubbing a hand over his face before he opened the passenger door with a rough jerk. "Get in the car."

I shook my head, my voice quieter. "I can walk, Vincent. You don't need to—"

"It wasn't a question, Alicia." His voice softened, but the command was still there, unwavering. He let out a long breath, his tone almost pleading now. "Please."

Reluctantly, I moved forward, slipping into the passenger seat as he circled back around to the driver's side. He settled in, his gaze finally meeting mine with a look that both grounded and unsettled me.

His hands found mine, wrapping around them with a warmth that made my chest ache. His touch was steady, strong—a reminder that I wasn't as alone as I thought.

"Sweetheart, you never waste anyone's time. Don't say that." His voice was soft. With one more look in my direction, he raked his hands through his already tousled hair, flexing him muscles in a way that only made me more aware of his presence, and started the car.

"Okay," I murmured, barely above a whisper.

But a part of me couldn't shake the feeling—he probably doesn't want to be my friend anymore.

The car was quiet, and I kept my gaze down, my fingers twisting together in my lap as thoughts churned in my mind. How could I make it up to him, to everyone? I'd been a terrible friend, leaving them all in the dark, making them worry.

Just as my thoughts started to spiral, his hand landed over mine, halting the restless fidgeting. I froze, not daring to look up.

But his gaze was fixed on my hand, tracing the small scab I'd accidentally picked open. Then, his eyes lifted to meet mine, and without a word, he slipped his larger hand between both of mine, warm and steady.

I swallowed, barely breathing as I turned his hand over, running my fingers along his knuckles, feeling the faint ridge of a scar. My heart stuttered, memories threatening to surface. No, not now. I shoved them down, instead focusing on the warmth of his hand—the silent comfort he offered without a word.

I turned to him, my voice soft. "Thank you."

He looked over, brow furrowing in confusion before something clicked in his eyes. His lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze darkening. He gave a small nod and turned away, facing forward. I bit my lip. Maybe I shouldn't have mentioned it.