Friends

Chapter 6

Jasmine's POV:

Oh my god, what's wrong with me? Why do I always push people who care about me away? Every time something good happens in my life, I find a way to fuck it up. It's like I'm allergic to happiness or something.

Kendrick is right. I met this amazing guy who actually liked me for who I am, and what did I do? I cut him off before things could get serious. And for what? To go back to the same asshole who couldn't care less about me. That was my choice, and here I am again, choosing to push away the only man in my life who genuinely cares about me. I should go apologize, but what if he doesn't want to talk to me?

Just as my thoughts spiral, there's a knock on the door. "Hey, I got you your favorite drink that the barista had to help me pronounce. Apparently, a brown shaken sugar espresso with no goat milk isn't a thing," Marc says, his voice tinged with laughter.

Oh my god, why are men like this? My heart feels lighter, and I can't help but laugh at his cluelessness. "Never in the history of Starbucks have they served goat milk," I say, opening the door and trying to hide my smile.

He grins, holding out the drink like a peace offering. "So, does the oat milk come from oatmeal or the oat tree?"

I burst into laughter, shaking my head. "What the fuck is an oat tree? You mean an oak tree, dummy?" His expression is so earnest, so delightfully confused, that I can't help but laugh harder. He always finds a way to make me smile, no matter the situation. Does he do it on purpose, or does he just have a gift for knowing exactly what to say?

"Oat tree, oak tree, same shit. Let's go to the couch, watch one of your Love is Blind shows, and drink this before the ice melts," he says, chuckling at himself.

I watch him walk to the couch, noticing how broad his shoulders seem today, are they always like that? He sits down, and I follow, my heart heavy with guilt. I can't pretend like I wasn't just an asshole to him earlier. I need to apologize.

"Marc, I just want to say I'm really-" I begin, but he cuts me off gently.

"Princess, you don't have to do that. I already know. Let's call it even. I'll pretend you weren't an ass, and you can pretend like I didn't walk in on you naked," he says, his smile soft and understanding.

Princess? He's never called me that before. The sweetness of it hits me, making me feel even worse for how mean I was to him when he was just trying to help. His kindness and willingness to brush things off, to make me feel better, bring tears to my eyes. How can someone be so good to me when I've been so awful? I don't deserve him, yet here he is, making me laugh and trying to mend my broken pieces with his humor and kindness.

He settles into the couch, and I sit beside him, the weight of my earlier actions pressing down on me. He looks at me with those warm, caring eyes and says softly, "I want this couch to be our safe space from now on. I don't know what happened between you two, and if you want to talk about it, I'm here. If you don't want to talk about it,I'm here."

The tears I've been holding back finally start to stream down my face. The sheer relief of his understanding, his unwavering support, and his gentle words break through my defenses.