Friends

Chapter 40

A/N: Chapters 41-82 are on Patreon along with other exclusive content if you want to check those out!

Marcqwuan's POV:

"Well, I wasn't his princess, but I was definitely his toy," she says, laughing.

But there's something off about the laugh—it's a little too forced, too sharp around the edges. For a moment, her eyes drift away from me, and I see it. That look. Like her mind is somewhere else entirely. Somewhere she doesn't want to be.

I've seen that look before—people trying to laugh through pain. Her smile stays, but it's empty, just a front. And I know, without her saying a word, that she's thinking about Kendrick. The way she's always talked about him, it was never love—it was survival. He used her, over and over, like she was nothing more than a thing to satisfy him. No real affection. No care. Just control masked as attention. And I hate that I can see the way it still lingers on her face, like he's got some kind of hold on her even now.

She laughs, but her body's tense. Her hand rests on her thigh like she's grounding herself, trying to stay present. And it hits me—she's not just remembering being used. She's remembering how normal it became for her. That breaks something in me.

"Which makes you perfect," I say, my voice softer now. "If you could be so loving and caring to someone who didn't even deserve it—someone who didn't care about you at all—then I can only imagine the kind of love you'd give to someone who actually treats you right. Someone who sees you. That kind of love... it'd be limitless."

For a moment, she doesn't say anything. Her smile fades—not completely, but enough. Her eyes shift, and there's this flicker of something raw. Like she's not used to hearing things like that. Like part of her wants to believe it, but another part doesn't know how. She looks at me, and for the first time tonight, it's not playful or seductive—it's vulnerable. Like I've touched something she keeps hidden away.

I feel the weight of it—of her. And maybe it's the alcohol, or maybe it's just everything between us boiling over, but I can't sit in this space any longer. I don't want to.

"Let's get out of here," I say, my voice low, almost a whisper.

She nods without hesitation.

I slide out of the booth, and that's when it really hits me. The room tilts just slightly. Not enough to knock me over, but enough to remind me that I've had more to drink than I should've. I grip the edge of the table for a second, steady myself.

Jasmine follows, and she's even more wobbly than I am. She grabs my hand as we make our way through the restaurant, our steps uneven, almost slow motion. The lights feel too bright. The chatter around us is muffled, distant—like we're moving through a dream.

Outside, the air is cooler, and it sobers me just enough to keep moving. The sidewalk shifts beneath our feet, but we lean into each other, holding hands as we head toward the car. Her heels click unevenly on the pavement. She stumbles once, and I catch her, her laughter soft and slurred against my shoulder.

"I'm good," she murmurs.

"Barely," I smile, unlocking the car.

I open the passenger door and help her in, watching her settle back into the seat with a quiet sigh. Then I walk around to the driver's side, still a little foggy, still reeling from everything—what we said, what we didn't say, and that look she gave me.

I'm in no condition to drive. But the plan is to just sit here for ten, maybe twenty minutes. Long enough to sober up. Long enough to get her home safe.

That's the plan.

I open the driver's side door and sit down. I close the door behind me and everything goes still. The only sound is our breathing—quiet, uneven, just a little too loud in the silence. The air between us is thick, humming with everything we're not saying.