20 Days In His Bedroom

Chapter Thirty four

I place my phone on the bedside table and sink into the soft pillow. Sleep takes me almost instantly.

A knock at the door jolts me awake.

"Hey—hey," I mumble, forcing my eyes open.

"It's Kyle," comes a low whisper from the other side, as if he's trying not to wake the whole house. But clearly, he has no trouble waking me.

"You can come in," I say groggily, dragging myself upright. My hair's a mess, fanned out wildly on the pillow.

He knocks again. "I would've been inside ten minutes ago if you hadn't locked the door."

Oh, right—I forgot I locked it before going to bed. Honestly, smart move.

"Alright, alright. I'm coming. Stop with the knocking," I mutter, quickly tossing my hair into a messy bun. It's in desperate need of care. I glance at the clock. 12:00 PM.

"Oh my God."

"What?" Kyle steps into the room as soon as I open the door, walking straight to the bed without glancing around—as if he's been here a thousand times.

"It's already noon!" I say, hands on my hips. "How did you even know this was my room?"

"I asked the maid," he replies, running a hand through his hair. He looks maddeningly good—dark jeans and a crisp shirt. Is he going somewhere?

"What do you even have to do today?" he raises an eyebrow, like I have no plans whatsoever.

"I need to find a job," I say bluntly, moving to sit beside him on the bed. "You're not going to stay here forever, and if Jack won't charge you because you're his friend, that doesn't apply to me. I don't know what's going to happen. I didn't even think I'd survive the crash, and now I'm just... here. I may be an adult, but my parents were everything to me."

Kyle shrugs, running his fingers through his hair again. "You're overthinking it. You're grown—you can live on your own. And no, I won't be staying here forever. I haven't bought a house or rented a place because I don't even know if I want to stay here. Back home, I have my own place, my business, my life. Why would I stay?"

For a second, I want him to say, Because of you. But of course, that's just fantasy.

"Then why haven't you called your parents?" I ask softly, unsure why I'm pushing. I don't want him to leave—but I don't know how to say that out loud.

He exhales. "Honestly? I don't know. Maybe it has something to do with you. Maybe I didn't want to leave you behind. But that can't be the only reason. I guess I just... needed space. Away from work, my dad, my mom, and the endless line of girls they keep parading in front of me—trying to marry me off."

"Never planning to marry?" I ask, lifting an eyebrow. But inside, that small part of me is clinging to what he just said—that I might play some kind of role in all of this.

He smirks slightly. "Why would I? I mean, sure, I could. I have options. But I only want to marry someone I truly love. And someone who loves me back just as much."

His eyes drop to my hands.

"Doesn't everyone want that?" I say, meeting his gaze.

"It's rare," he murmurs. "You can love someone... but that doesn't mean they're right for you. Doesn't mean they're good for you."

"Not always," I argue.

"No," he says firmly. "Always. Don't believe the stories you read."

I blink. "Wait—how do you know I read romantic stories?"

"I just guessed," he says with a teasing smile, rubbing my fingers gently.

"Do you like reading?" I ask.

"Sometimes. But I don't always have the patience to finish a whole book," he says, standing up and walking to a shelf.

"But you like writing?" I say, more as a statement than a question.

He looks back. "Why do you say that?"

"Because... you write in your diary," I say carefully, trying not to sound too eager. I've been dying to read it ever since I saw it.

He turns and gives me the most wicked, teasing smile. Then resumes rummaging through papers and files on the shelf.

"You were furious when you saw me reading it," I say quietly, instantly regretting it. Why am I reminding him of that?

"What?" His eyes widen. "He still has those things? I knew it."

He flips through a pile more aggressively now. Something's clearly upsetting him.

"What things?" I ask, standing up.

"Nothing," he mutters.

"If it's nothing, then you shouldn't be digging through his stuff. Especially since it's in my room. He'll think I snooped through it."

Kyle ignores me, reading through some papers.

"What are those?" I press again.

He suddenly freezes, then storms out with the papers clutched in his hands.

"Kyle!" I follow him, heart pounding.

He bounds down the stairs and yells, "Jack!"

No answer.

"Jack!" he shouts again. This time, Jack emerges from his room, rubbing his eyes.

"What, man?"

Kyle thrusts the papers at him. "Why the hell do you still have these? Huh? Why are you keeping these pictures? Were you behind it all along?!"

His voice is loud enough to draw every maid and worker in the house.

"What are you talking about?" Jack squints at the papers—then snatches them from Kyle's hands.

"Can you tell me why these are in your house? Why are there pictures of Selena with you?!"

Jack stammers. "I—I don't know. Maybe one of the guys left them here?"

Kyle's jaw tightens. "Oh really? And they just happened to stash them on your shelf? How convenient."

Without another word, Kyle turns and storms back to his room.

I don't hesitate—I follow him, heart in my throat.

⸻

Author's Note:
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