Shattered Asylum

Chapter 80

It's been about an hour, and I've just been pacing around my room, trying to gain the courage to apologize to Grayson.

Is he still mad?

Does he even want to see me?

...What if he decides he actually doesn't want to be with me and breaks up with me again?

Ugh!

I plop down on my bed, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes, trying to stop the questions from attacking my brain all at once. Maybe he's not mad anymore. Maybe he's had time to cool down.

Or maybe he's still furious, and I'll be walking straight into another fight.

The thought makes my stomach twist, but I know I have to do this. I owe him an apology, no matter how he reacts.

I take a deep breath, pushing myself up and heading for his room before I lose my nerves.

The hallway feels longer than usual, my heartbeat picking up as I approach his door. I raise my hand to knock, but before I can, movement catches my eye.

Leslie appears at the top of the stairs, arms crossed, watching me with a knowing look.

"He's asleep," she says softly. "I tried waking him earlier, but he wouldn't budge. Maybe you'll have better luck."

And just like that, she turns and disappears down the hall, leaving me standing there, heart pounding, mind racing.

I swallow, hesitating for only a second before slowly turning the doorknob. The door creaks slightly as I push it open, and I slip inside, careful to be as quiet as possible.

The sun filters through the closed curtains, painting faint streaks of light across the walls. The room is dim despite the daylight outside, the soft glow catching on the edges of the furniture. My eyes land on him immediately.

Grayson is sprawled on his stomach, one arm dangling off the bed, his face turned away from me. His breathing is deep and steady, his body completely still, like exhaustion finally caught up with him. He still doesn't have a shirt on, and the blanket stops just below his hips, revealing the waistband of his sweatpants. His muscles are relaxed, his chest rising and falling in an even rhythm.

For a moment, I just stand there, taking him in.

He looks peaceful like this. Vulnerable, even.

And knowing I'm the reason he was so worked up earlier, the reason he's now so drained, twists something deep inside me.

I swallow hard and step closer, lowering myself onto my knees beside his bed. My fingers hover above his shoulder, hesitant, remembering how he pulled away from me earlier. The memory makes my chest tighten.

What if he wakes up and pushes me away again?

I hesitate for a second longer, then finally whisper. "Grayson."

He doesn't move.

I press my fingers lightly against his shoulder blade, giving him a gentle shake. "Grayson," I whisper again, a little firmer this time.

Nothing.

He doesn't even stir. If it weren't for the steady rise and fall of his chest, I would've thought he's dead.

My gaze lingers on him for a few more minutes, watching the way his lashes rest against his cheeks, the way his lips are slightly parted, his face completely relaxed in sleep.

I should let him rest.

I can talk to him later.

Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I lean forward, pressing a soft, lingering kiss just beneath his eye, on that tender space where his cheek meets the bridge of his nose. My lips linger for a second longer than they should, soaking in the warmth of his skin, the way he smells like sleep and something faintly familiar.