1 Hayes was a man defined by his perimeters. For the seven years we lived together, his rules were absolute. We couldn’t share house slippers.

Our clothes had to be compartmentalized into separate closets.

He didn’t keep a single photo of me on his phone, and the mere concept of matching couples’ jewelry made him visibly uncomfortable. I used to fight him on it.

I spent years desperately waiting for him to swing the doors of his world wide open and invite me in.

But he would just shake his head, a patronizing, affectionate smile playing on his lips as he shut me down. "Sloane, it’s just how I live," he’d murmur. "I need you to respect my space." That was the gospel of our relationship.

Until the day he brought Blair—the girl he’d grown up with back in Connecticut—into our apartment. Suddenly, the perimeters vanished.

He gave her his oversized vintage tshirts to sleep in. He let her use his expensive linen sheets. They ate off the same plates, shared the same silverware.

When I finally snapped and told him he was crossing a massive line, Hayes just sighed.

His voice held a sharp, warning edge. "Sloane, I don't like it when you act hysterical over nothing." Late that same night, I bumped into Hayes’s electric toothbrush on the bathroom vanity.

The screen lit up, and a voice chimed through the quiet bathroom. I froze. He had reprogrammed the smartbrush’s morning greeting. It was Blair’s voice.

I stood there, looking out into our bedroom at those two strictly divided closets, and felt something inside me turn to ice. He didn’t have a psychological need for boundaries.

He just never wanted to let me in. I decided right then that it was time to stop knocking on a door that was never meant for me. ...

I didn't hear Hayes step into the bathroom doorway.

He looked at the toothbrush in my hand, a deep furrow appearing between his brows. "Sloane, I've told you a hundred times not to mess with my things." Usually, this was the part where I would stammer an apology and carefully put his belonging back exactly where I found it.

Not tonight. Instead, I raised the toothbrush and pressed the power button. “Time to brush your teeth!” Blair’s sweet, cloying voice chirped from the speaker.

On the tiny LED screen, a cartoon avatar of Blair’s face blinked back at us.

A flicker of genuine panic crossed Hayes’s eyes. "You use her voice and her face on something this intimate, yet I’m not even allowed to touch it," I said, my voice shockingly steady. "Hayes, am I your girlfriend, or just your roommate?" He reached out, snatched the toothbrush from my hand, and clipped it back onto its magnetic mount.

He let out a long, heavy exhale, acting as though my question was the most exhausting thing he’d ever endured. "When did you get so petty?" he muttered. "Blair thought the app was funny, so I let her set it up.

Is that really worth a Spanish Inquisition?" Before I could even formulate a response, a voice called out from his home office.

Blair poked her head around the corner, crinkling her nose in a practiced, helpless pout. "Hayes, where's my hot milk?" Instantly, the irritation vanished from Hayes's face, replaced by an indulgent grin. "Coming right up." He brushed past me, heading for the kitchen.

I reached out on instinct, my fingers only catching the soft cotton hem of his shirt before it slipped away. The microwave pinged.

I watched as he pulled down his favorite mug—the one that was part of a set I had bought for us years ago—poured the milk, and carried it into the office as if holding fragile glass.

A memory hit me with sickening clarity: our first year together, when I had used his laptop to quickly look up a recipe.

He had thrown a massive fit, demanding I promise never to touch his computer again.

But right now, Blair was sitting crosslegged in his expensive ergonomic chair, playing a video game on his monitor.

Hayes leaned over her, their bodies pressed flush together, laughing at something on the screen. She rested her head on his shoulder, both of their hands layered over the mouse.

I couldn't stomach another second of it. I turned and went to bed. It felt like hours before Hayes finally emerged from the office.

He pushed the bedroom door open and looked mildly surprised to find me sitting up in the dark. "Why aren't you asleep?" he asked. "You know you get migraines when you stay up late." I looked at him.

I felt entirely hollowed out. "Let's break up, Hayes." He froze.

Then, he walked over and leaned down, forcing me to meet his eyes. "You're upset because Blair is staying with us, aren't you?" His tone was entirely too gentle.

A sudden burn pricked the back of my eyes, threatening tears. "Sloane, you're older than her.

You shouldn't be competing with a girl like that." I snapped my head up, staring into eyes that held absolutely no warmth. "Blair is family. We grew up together.

She's not an outsider," he continued, his voice dropping into a register of quiet disappointment. "I can't believe we've been together for seven years, and you have this little trust in me." He pulled back the duvet, got into bed, and turned his back to me. "Sloane, I'm really disappointed in you." He was disappointed.

For seven years, his clinical boundaries applied to everyone. He had zero female friends. He skipped networking dinners if female colleagues were attending.

During our first year, a girl from his firm kept texting him late at night. Hayes blocked her immediately, leaving zero room for misinterpretation.

I had joked with him then, asking if he was worried about office politics.

He had stroked my hair, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. "She didn't care about disrespecting my girlfriend.

Why should I care about her?" Because of that, I had trusted him blindly. Absolutely.

But Blair was the exception to every rule. "Don't use breaking up as a threat," he murmured to the wall. "It's cheap.

Go to sleep." I sat in the dark for a very long time, listening until his breathing leveled out into a deep, oblivious sleep.

The next morning, the second I walked into my firm, my director called me into her office. "Sloane, corporate is opening up the new regional headquarters down in Miami.

We desperately need a Project Manager down there," she said, leaning across her desk. "I know you and your boyfriend are settled here in Boston, but they’re offering a massive relocation package.

I really want you to consider it." Normally, I would have politely declined on the spot, citing my life with Hayes.

Instead, I gave her a slow, deliberate nod. "I'll think about it." When I got back to my cubicle, my coworkers were huddled together, whispering furiously. "Did you guys see the marketing director from the floor above us this morning?

He brought a girl into work." "Yeah, I saw him helping her out of the passenger seat of his Audi.

Has to be his girlfriend." My fingers hovered over my keyboard. "Which director?" "Hayes, from the tech firm upstairs. Who else?" I didn't need them to say another word.

I knew it was Blair. I opened my text thread with Hayes. The last message was sent by me, three days ago. It's pouring. Can we carpool home today? He had left me on read.

He always insisted that our personal lives couldn't mix with our professional ones. Because our companies shared a building, he claimed people would gossip.

I bought his excuses, taking the subway in the freezing slush alone for years while he drove. Now, he was parading Blair through the lobby.

I was the only one who had ever been a secret. At 5:00 PM, a few coworkers lingered by the lobby glass, watching the street.

I hid near the back of the crowd, watching as Blair clung to Hayes's arm.

He opened the passenger door for her, placing a protective hand over the roof of the car so she wouldn't bump her head.

The Audi sped off, leaving nothing but the smell of exhaust in the humid summer air. My legs felt like lead.

I pulled out my phone, opened my director's chat, and typed one sentence. I'll take the Miami transfer. When I unlocked the apartment door, it was pitch black.

It wasn't until two hours later that Hayes and Blair burst in, carrying armfuls of expensive grocery bags. "Oh, Sloane's home," Blair chirped, heading straight for the kitchen. "I'm cooking tonight!

I'll make you something amazing." She sounded so natural. Like she was the woman of the house, and I was the guest.

Hayes followed her, that sickeningly sweet smile back on his face. "Slow down, a menace like you shouldn't be handling a chef's knife." He shut the kitchen door behind them.

Just like that, I was shut out of his world again. Except this time, I had no desire to knock.

The kitchen was alive with their noise—the clatter of pans, the low murmur of his voice, her bright, ringing laughter.

Occasionally, their silhouettes overlapped through the frosted glass. I sat on the living room sofa, cranking the TV volume up to max. In my head, I was making a mental inventory.

My laptop. Phone chargers. Toiletries. Miami was sweltering; I'd only need my summer dresses.

I was so deep in thought I didn't realize Blair had pushed the kitchen door open, carrying a steaming, heavy ceramic dish.

Hayes was hovering right behind her, his hands outstretched as if she might break. "Careful, Blair, it's boiling—" I turned at the sound of his voice, right as Blair collided into me.

The scalding contents of the dish sloshed directly onto my forearm. A scream tore from my throat as I instinctively jerked back.

The ceramic plate shattered on the hardwood, a sharp piece bouncing up and grazing Blair's calf. She let out a highpitched shriek, tears instantly pooling in her eyes.

My forearm was already violently red, the skin bubbling into agonizing blisters. Hayes lunged forward.

For a split second, I thought he was reaching for me, but Blair grabbed the hem of his shirt. "Hayes, it hurts so bad." He didn't even hesitate. He scooped Blair up into his arms.

He paused for half a second to look at me, a flicker of guilt crossing his face before it hardened into practicality. "Sloane, run your arm under the tap.

I need to get antiseptic on Blair's leg, she scars easily." I had seen her leg. It was a paper cut. Yet Hayes was looking at her like she was bleeding out.

I stared down at the ruined, blistering skin on my arm, biting the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted copper. I refused to cry. It's just the pain, I told myself.

That's the only reason my chest feels like it's caving in.

By the time Hayes came back, having thoroughly coddled Blair in the living room, I was still standing by the sink, letting freezing water run over my burns.

He leaned against the doorframe. "You okay?

Do we need to go to urgent care?" Before I could answer, Blair called out from the dining table. "Hayes, my hand still stings." He turned away from me instantly. "Don't move, I'll feed you." I stood in the doorway, shivering from the cold water, and watched.

He scooped up the remaining food, blowing on it softly before holding the spoon to Blair's lips. She whined that it was too hot.

Without missing a beat, Hayes cupped his hand under her chin. "Spit it out here if it's too hot." For years, Hayes had insisted we use separate serving spoons.

He would never share a bowl of pasta with me. The idea of feeding me was entirely off the table. Couples need boundaries to keep the mystery alive, he'd preached. Now I understood.

Boundaries only applied when you didn't love someone enough to blur the lines. Using my good hand, I pulled out my phone and changed my flight to Miami. I wasn't waiting a week.

I was leaving tomorrow. That night, we lay backtoback in the dark. I didn't sleep a wink.

I just watched the shadows stretch across the ceiling, counting down the hours until I could disappear. Around 2:00 AM, a crack of thunder rattled the windows.

I flinched violently, pulling the duvet over my head, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I was terrified of thunderstorms.

When I was eight years old, on a night exactly like this, my father got blackout drunk.

I hid inside a cramped closet, clamping my hands over my mouth while the thunder outside masked the sound of him beating my mother to death.

I didn't call the police until the sun came up, shaking so hard I could barely dial 911. My mother never woke up. Hayes knew this.

For years, whenever a storm broke, he would pull me flush against his chest, tucking my head under his chin, rubbing my back until the shaking stopped. "I've got you, Sloane.

You're safe." But tonight, the mattress shifted. I peeked out from under the covers.

Hayes was out of bed, sliding his feet into his slippers. "Where are you going?" I asked, hating how my voice trembled.

He glanced back at me, his eyes heavy with sleep. "Blair hates thunder. She's terrified.

I need to go sit with her." I sat bolt upright, the pure, unadulterated terror of the storm overriding my pride. "Hayes, you know what happens to me in storms." I dug my nails into my palms, trying to keep my voice from breaking. "You know what my dad did—" "Your dad killed your mom.

I know." He said it like he was reading a grocery list. Like it was a true crime podcast he was vaguely bored of.

He rubbed his eyes, letting out an annoyed sigh. "Sloane, that was twenty years ago.

You need to get over it." The words hit me with physical force. "Leave the lamp on if you're scared," he snapped. "Stop acting like a jealous teenager." Before I could process the cruelty of it, the bedroom door clicked shut.

I sat there in the deafening silence of the room. Another boom of thunder shook the floorboards. I curled in on myself, trembling uncontrollably, and finally broke down.

The tears soaked into the sheets, warm and pathetic.

I had never imagined that the deepest wounds I had bared to the man I loved would one day be used as the knife he used to gut me.

Lightning illuminated the room in sharp, sterile flashes. I stared at the rain lashing against the glass. The storm had finally breached the walls.

It was inside me now, a damp, rotting cold I feared I would carry for the rest of my life. When the sky finally bruised a dull, morning purple and the rain slowed, I got out of bed.

My eyes were swollen shut. I packed my clothes, piece by piece. My suitcase was only half full. I zipped it up, desperate to just breathe different air.

As I walked down the hall, I saw the guest room door was cracked open. Hayes was asleep next to Blair, her arms wrapped tightly around his torso. I didn't pause. I didn't look back.

I walked out the front door and let it lock behind me. ... “Ladies and gentlemen, we are currently beginning our descent into Miami International...” I was staring blindly out the airplane window when my phone screen lit up on my tray table.

Hayes: Where are you? Hayes: I was harsh last night. I'm sorry. What do you want for breakfast? I'm making eggs.

A flight attendant stopped at my row, offering a warm smile. "Miss, please switch your devices to airplane mode for landing." "Of course," I said softly.

I opened the chat window, my thumbs flying across the keyboard for the last time. I'm on a plane. I took a transfer out of state. We're done, Hayes.

I powered the phone down completely. The plane banked, and the glittering expanse of the Florida coastline rushed up to meet me.

From now on, I promised myself, I would never let another storm trap me again.