[Maddie’s POV]

Ava’s apartment that her parents rented for her smells like vanilla candles and old coffee. I stand in the doorway with my phone in one hand, feeling like an idiot for showing up at midnight, but she just opens the door wider and steps aside without comment.

The living room is small and cluttered—textbooks on the coffee table, a pair of running shoes by the couch, a half-empty mug of something that might have been tea at some point.

“Couch is all yours,” she says, already pulling a blanket from the closet. It’s heavy and pilled at the edges but warm when she hands it to me. “We can talk in the morning if you want. Or not. Whatever works.”

The ease of it catches me off guard. No questions about what happened, no prying into why I’m not at my own dorm. Just the blanket and the space to breathe.

I sink onto the couch and wrap myself in the blanket, feeling the tension in my shoulders start to unwind for the first time in hours.

Ava disappears into her bedroom without further comment, leaving me alone with the quiet hum of her refrigerator and the distant sound of someone’s TV through the wall.

I don’t sleep much. The couch is lumpy and my mind won’t stop replaying the fight—Emily’s face when I accused her of controlling me, the way she looked genuinely hurt.

The way I grabbed my jacket and stormed out like I was proving a point when I’m not even sure what point that was.

But morning comes slowly eventually through the window above the couch. Gray light filters through cheap blinds and I hear Ava moving around in the kitchen before I’m fully awake.

The smell of coffee drifts into the living room and I force myself to sit up, blanket still wrapped around my shoulders.

Ava appears in the doorway holding two mugs. She’s wearing sweatpants and an oversized hoodie, hair pulled into a messy bun.

“Coffee,” she says, handing me one. “It’s black because I don’t have milk, but I can offer you some questionable creamer that’s probably expired.”

“Black’s fine.” I take the mug and wrap both hands around it, letting the heat seep into my palms.

She settles into the armchair across from me, tucking her legs under herself. We drink in comfortable silence for a minute before she asks, “So what happened?”

I stare into my coffee like it might have answers. “Emily and I had a fight. About my father. I finally told her that he’s been calling, and Emily thinks he’s manipulating me. She’s probably right, but I accused her of trying to keep me from my parents, of being controlling.”

Ava sips her coffee, expression neutral. “What do you think? About your father, I mean.”

The question catches me off guard. Not “Emily’s right” or “you should listen to her,” just what do I think.

I exhale slowly, watching steam rise from the mug. “I don’t know anymore. Maybe he has changed. Maybe people can change. Maybe I need to at least hear what he has to say instead of just cutting him off forever based on what he did before.”

Ava’s eyebrows lift slightly. “You really think that? Or is that what you want to think?” I want to hate her for reading me so well, but I just can’t.

“I don’t know,” I admit, and the honesty of it feels like letting go of something heavy. “But I told him I’d come home this weekend. Just for dinner and just to talk. Maybe it’ll be a disaster. Maybe he’ll say all the same things and prove Emily right. But at least I’ll know, you know?”

The walk back feels longer than it should. Cold air bites at my face and I pull my jacket tighter, trying to rehearse what I’ll say to Emily. Sorry for storming out. Sorry for accusing you. Maybe we can just forget it happened.

Relief and guilt twist together in my chest. “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have stormed out. And I shouldn’t have accused you of trying to control me. That wasn’t fair.”

Emily nods, but her shoulders don’t relax. “I was trying to protect you. But maybe I went about it the wrong way.”

“Maybe we both did,” I offer, sitting on my bed so we’re at the same level. “Can we just… not do this anymore? The fighting, I mean.”

“Yeah.” Emily’s smile is small and tentative. “I’d like that.” The tension eases slightly, like someone turned down the volume on the uncomfortable silence.

We’re not quite okay—there’s still something unresolved hanging in the air between us—but we’re not actively fighting either. It’s a start.

Emily goes back to her textbook and I pull out my phone, scrolling through messages without really reading them. The bus schedule for tomorrow is still open in my browser. Saturday afternoon, two-hour ride, arriving at the station where my father will pick me up.

I should tell her. Ava’s right about that. Emily deserves to know I’m going home this weekend.

But the words stick in my throat. We just stopped fighting. We just found some kind of fragile peace.

Telling her now will shatter that immediately, will prove her right about the manipulation, and will turn this afternoon into another argument I don’t have the energy for.

So I close the browser and set my phone down, telling myself I’ll mention it later. Tomorrow, maybe. Or Saturday morning before I leave. There’s time, and I’ll tell her about this. Just—not yet.