The sound of the door clicking shut was strangely loud. It wasn't as though it was a sound that was foreign to Jett—not by any means.

But it felt so final.

He remained still for a long moment after Raven left, waiting for her to rush back in and apologize—to throw her arms around him and tell him everything was going to be okay. She was going to change her mind. Realize that there was a third option than the ones she'd laid out.

One minute passed. Two. Five. Ten.

The moments blended together in such a way that he had no idea how much time had passed before he started moving again. He was numb from his knees to his toes so he shifted positions and shook his head before he resumed doing the dishes. The water was lukewarm at best, but the skin over his hands still felt tight.

His hands trembled the entire time. His eyes rarely moved from the dishes. There was a strange, gnawing sensation from the pit of his stomach that wriggled its way throughout the rest of his body. An unhealthy helplessness that was eating him away.

The kitchen didn't feel like it took very long to clean.

Throw away the uneaten food. Wash the dishes. Put everything away.

He was in motion, and he wanted to stay that way. If he had a chore, he didn't have to stop and think.

What else was there?

His hand was already reaching for the broom before he remembered he had the bathroom to deal with. It took fifteen minutes to sweep up every tiny shard.

He needed a new chore.

Even as he poured the shattered glass into the garbage can, his mind was racing to come up with something else.

He could unpack the rest of the boxes they had stored in the closet. Mostly his things—things his mother wouldn't let him leave the house without. Things she deemed necessities.

Two hours of unpacking. Another our of reorganizing the furniture.

Fatigue was slipping in; the lack of a good night's sleep was catching up to him quickly, but his nerves weren't going to let him relax.

What else was there to do?

The closet. Get the rest of his clothes up on hangers. Get his dresser in order.

Twenty minutes into that project, his hand was hovering over the drawer where he'd last found his pen.

Tiredly, he looked at the handle. His thoughts were sluggish and he wasn't processing all of them as clearly as he would have liked, but he had a bundle of socks in one hand and they were just waiting to go somewhere.

And he just wanted to see it.

The little thing that had gotten him into so much trouble.

He pulled the drawer open, with full intent to pick out his pen and put it where he wanted it.

Except, it wasn't there.

At first, it wasn't a big deal. Maybe it had just gotten pushed under something. He reached in, fished around, moved some things.

Empty.

Okay, no big deal. Maybe he'd just picked the wrong drawer.

Depositing the socks, he turned his attention to the drawer next to it. Pulling it open, he investigated—and still found nothing.

So he went to the next one. And the next.

Six drawers, no pen.

He scowled, turning quickly. Skimming the rest of the room, there was still plenty evidence that Raven had been living here. He just needed to figure out where the new hiding spot for his pen was.

He checked the boxes by the door. The boxes at the top of the closet. Under the bed. The bathroom. Dirty laundry. The bookcase. Rechecked the drawers.

For three hours, he tore the house apart, looking for it.

And then his cell phone lit up with a text.

He moved to it, immediately, wondering if it was her. Wondering if she was taunting him with it.

The text was from Jacoby, asking him if he could work for a few extra hours on Thursday to help get through their latest shipment. Jett's hand curled around the phone; he was compelled to hurl it at the nearest wall though refrained—only just barely—after reminding himself that this stupid little device was currently the only thing keeping him in touch with Raven.

And his pen.

The mere thought made his lip curl. It sent sparks across his skin.

His pen? It wasn't here—he knew it wasn't here. He knew he hadn't missed it. He'd been through everything. Most things more than once.

She had taken with her only one box.

What had been in it?

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to remember exactly what she had taken with her. Nothing explicit came to mind. If she'd taken his pen, it would have been easy to hide.

But would she have done that? Was that like her?

He didn't have to think about it to know the answer.

It was the most logical thing. It wasn't here. She wasn't here. She had taken something. She must have taken it. But why?

To force him not to power up? What the hell was she getting out of this? She wasn't even here to see him squirm.

But she didn't have to be here to know that he was.

Rage coursed through him, moreso than the hurt or disappointment from earlier.

Trust was a difficult thing to earn.

He had put his trust in Raven from the very beginning. He had trusted her against everything. He had trusted her to make good decisions. To stay loyal. To stand by him.

He had done everything to earn her trust. Given up on friends. Changed his schedules. Changed everything. Opened up to her. Shared secrets with her. Was intimate with her, in a way he had not been with anyone else.

And yet she constantly accused him of cheating. Or favoring people—things more than her.

He was not entirely innocent. He knew he had made mistakes. He knew he wasn't perfect.

But he had tried—for her.

So she'd taken his heart and his pen?

What the ******** kind of deal was that?

Two years of devoting himself to her, and this was how she wanted to leave him? Taking two of the most important things from him—what next, was she going to run his mother over on the way home?

He picked up the phone, typing in her number. His finger hovered over the 'call' button, and through sheer willpower alone, he forced himself not to make that call. Not now, not when he was furious. Not when he was seeing red.

No, he needed something else.

Something to calm down.

A trip to the store would take him five minutes.

Was it worth it?

…What if she came back in that time?

A moment of debating told him she wouldn’t. And if she did, she'd contact him first.

Jett debated with himself for the entire moment it took him to get dressed and find his wallet. The entire time it took him to get downstairs, lock the door, and get into his car. To drive to the convenience store. To pick up a pack of cigarettes. To drive back.

A part of him hoped he'd find her car parked in its spot. That he'd pull up and she'd be inside.

But she wasn't.

So he pulled into his parking spot and reached for the cigarettes. There was a lighter in the dashboard.

His hand was shaking, from stress or fatigue.

Or anticipation.

He looked at the box for a long moment. Thoughts coagulating, he couldn’t come up with a legitimate argument as he peeled the plastic off the box. As he opened the carton.

As he pulled one out.

Who cared?

He lit it up.

Held it to his lips.

For a few seconds, he watch the orange glimmer at the end of the cigarette. Let the smoke slowly dance upwards, until it hit the roof of the car.

And then he took a drag.

A long, sweet drag.

And he wondered why he'd ever bothered quitting in the first place.

The smoke filled his lungs and brought a strange calm. His hand stopped shaking. His brain stopped racing.

He closed his eyes and leaned back in the car, just relaxing. It was the first time he'd felt relaxed in…

In how long?

Another drag.

In too long.

He focused on it. On the musky taste. The smoke tickling it's way through his throat. The smoothness between his lips.

He would have kept smoking had he not become keenly aware of the warmth dying flame. It had eaten away the tobacco and was almost at the filter when he opened his eyes again.

It had gone too quickly.

Opening his car door, he dragged himself from the seat, collecting everything. He checked his phone again, neither thrilled nor disappointed when there was nothing. Closing the car door, he was already lighting up another cigarette.

He had the decency not to smoke inside, so he finished it on the curb, discarding the butts on the sidewalk before kicking them into the grass.

Eighteen cigarettes left.

And he already wanted another.

They were so sweet, so reassuring.

But he was tired.

Angry. But tired.

He checked his phone again, for the umpteenth time. Still nothing from anyone he cared about.

His dexterity was slipping. His eyelids were drooping. He was going to crash, either inside or back in his car. He tossed it an almost longing look before trudging to the doorstep.

He didn't want anyone to see him.

He was lucky he hadn't run into anyone yet, or he might have bashed their face in. Just to do it. Just to prove that he could.

It was probably best he was alone. Probably best he didn't call Raven. Didn't text.

There was always time.

Tonight. Tomorrow, maybe.

Maybe she'd be back before then.

Right now, he just wanted answers.

And her. And his pen.