Most mornings began the same. I woke up and went to class, maybe stopped by the hospital if I had enough time. Today I decided to go visit Katie. And I wish I hadn't. Truman was sleeping on the couch in her room, Santana laying in his arms. I stared at the two of them and I felt like I didn't belong. That I didn't even have a right to be here, interrupting.

I knew it was wrong. Katie was my best friend. I was welcomed here. I was supposed to be here. But today, everything felt wrong. Off.

I was nearly out the door when Santana softly called, "Eden, wait." She was untangling herself from Truman's arms until she sat upright. I pretended it didn't hurt, to see her with him. "Sorry, we fell asleep. Did you want to be alone with her? I'll wake Truman up. We can leave—"

"No," I said quickly before he opened his eyes and saw the hurt on my face. Because he would see it, he could read me too easily. "That's okay. I have to get to class."

"Are you sure? It's fine. We can leave if you want. Or Tru can stay, if you want to talk to him." She was being so nice. Too nice. She was smiling gently like she really meant it. Like she would clear the room in a heartbeat if that's what I wanted.

Like she'd leave me alone with her boyfriend, not knowing he'd try to kiss me the moment she left the room.

"Thanks, Santana."

I left before he could wake up. It was better like this: the two of them together and me on the outside. This was normal. This is what I needed and what Katie wanted.

Walking to class made my mind race. Every time I seemed to have a minute alone it was stuck on Truman. I replayed yesterday in my head, the painting and the hand holding. It felt wrong. It felt like borderline cheating. And I wasn't going to be the other girl.

It was easier to be around Truman when I thought of Santana as Satan, as this girl Katie painted her out to be. It was easier when I knew he was unhappy and blamed her for his unhappiness. And I hated myself for feeling that.

But now, now it all felt wrong.

I raised the volume of the music blasting in my ears for the rest of the walk.

My Art professor's office-building was empty. There were a few students walking through the halls, but most people were in class at this time. I knocked on her office door, then a faint "come in" sounded from inside and I pushed it open. She was sitting behind a desk that was covered in tiny plants, typing on a laptop.

She smiled. "Miss. Flores, have a seat."

I said hello and sat in the only chair, eyeing the room around me. The walls were yellow, covered in hand-drawn paintings that seemed to be from a child, or a very untalented adult.

Either way, I relaxed. The office seemed causal, far from what I originally imagined when she responded to my email and asked me to stop by. I didn't have much of a choice. Not after I ran out of class before catching a glimpse of a naked Truman.

"You want to discuss your makeup project?" I nodded, pushing thoughts surrounding Truman aside.

"I'm sorry for running out of class." The words came out too quickly, exposing my nerves. "Me and Truman—the model—know each other. It was. . . surprising, that's all."

My professor's eyebrows raised as she ran a hand through her long hair, pulling it over her shoulder. I watched as it draped over the desk, covering her laptop.

"I see." Her fingers continued through the strands, bracelets jingling. "Well, I can understand why you felt uncomfortable with the nudity, then. You could always opt for a painting that doesn't show so much."

I leaned forward, not understanding. "What do you mean?"

"Well," she said, hands clapping together, "what if you drew Truman without him being naked? Perhaps a portrait would suffice. Would that be a problem?"

"Well, no, but—"

"Great!" She stood up, walking to the door and holding it open. I quickly slung my bag over my shoulder as she said, "Then it's settled, Eden. Submit a painting of Mr. Falls by next week as the makeup assignment."

She practically shooed me out the door, yelling a faint, "I look forward to seeing it!" behind me as I hurried down the hallway.

When I rounded the corner, I sunk against the elevator, groaning. The entire point of this makeup assignment was so that I wouldn't have to paint Truman. And now I was stuck, having to spend more time with him, this time with a legitimate reason to stare.

My blood was boiling as I imagined the shit-eating grin that would occupy his face once I told him of this.

The elevator doors opened and I stumbled backwards, gasping when two hands appeared under my arms, holding me up.

"Probably not a great idea to lean against two doors that open."

I spun around to find two hazel eyes locked on mine, and a smiling face.

"You're Eden," he said, stepping out of the elevator and tugging me out of the way with him. I must have looked surprise, because he added, "We have Art together. You nearly knocked me over when you made a run for it last week."

Despite myself, I felt my face heat up. The elevator doors opened again and I stepped aside as people walked out, disappearing down the hallways.

"I'm Omari." He held out his hand and I shook it, smiling. His eyes were so light, shining like stars against his dark skin.

"Eden," I said.

"I know," he added with a laugh. I groaned and internally searched for my brain, wondering where the fuck it seemed to run off to.

I barely had time to respond when he was walking away, throwing me a smile over his shoulder. "See you in class," he called.

I waved before stepping into the elevator. When the doors closed, I collapsed against the walls, breathing hard. I didn't want to paint Truman. I didn't want to spend more time alone with him, because time alone was tempting. And I knew that one day, soon, I would give into the temptation.

The promise I made Katie and Santana's face swam through my mind. Warning me, haunting me.

Before I could reprimand myself for what I was about to do, my phone was in my hand, fingers flying across the keyboard.

My shift's done at eleven. Be there.

I hit send. A second later, Miles responded. His message was simple, clearly communicating his intentions with the tongue-out emoji and an eggplant.

Rolling my eyes, I shoved my phone into my pocket. Sex probably wasn't the best way to deal with my rising problems, but it seemed to be all I had.

____

As promised, I walked out of the bar at eleven to find Miles leaning against a lamp post. His eyes quickly met mine and he grinned, placing his hands firmly on my waist when I stood in front of him.

"Tour bus, or your place?" he asked. His tongue ran across his lips, catching on his lip piercing.

I knew Ramona wouldn't be too pleased with me bringing him to our place, but I wasn't too pleased that she was moving out in a week.

"My place," I said. I barely got the words out before his lips were on mine, and I doubted we would even make it all the way back to my apartment.

"Eden?"

I pulled back, frowning at my name being called. When Miles swore under his breath, I instantly knew who the voice belonged to.

Truman and Santana were standing at the door to the bar, watching us. Santana looked bored, tugging impatiently at Truman's hand, whose eyes were locked on mine.

They narrowed when Miles' arm snaked around my waist, pulling me against his side. I nearly slapped him off of me. I wasn't some sort of territory he could claim.

"Your shift's done?"

I didn't miss the disappointment in Trumans's words and, judging by the look on his girlfriend's face, neither did she.

Miles answered before I could. "It is," he said, pulling me closer. "But the night's just beginning."

I gritted my teeth and glared at him. But his eyes were locked on Truman, oblivious to my anger.

I risked a glance at Truman who was now walking towards me. I shifted uncomfortably, heart beginning to race, when he stopped in front of me.

"Can I talk to you?" he asked me, Santana calling his name from behind. "I'll meet you inside," he called over his shoulder, his gaze returning to mine.

There was something in his eyes that had me sighing, had me following Truman a few stores down, until we were out of earshot.

He lit a cigarette and took a long drag before he spoke. "Eden, what are you doing?" The smoke curled around his lips before drifting into the darkness.

I smiled. "What, or who?"

His lips pressed into a thin line. "This isn't funny."

"You're right," I said, taking a step closer, "it's not funny, and it's also none of your business."

"I'm just—"

"Looking out for me?" I sighed. "I'm not a kid anymore, Tru. I'm not the sixteen your old girl your parents asked you to chaperone at a party, all right? You don't need to look over my shoulder and try to protect me anymore."

I could see the way he flinched, the way the words hurt him. And maybe it was because of the guilt he felt for not being able to protect Katie. Maybe that's why he felt the need to make up for it by protecting me, too.

But I didn't need protection.

I wasn't really sure what I needed from Truman, if anything at all.

Truman only nodded, flicking his cigarette onto the ground before he walked through the doors to the bar, to his girlfriend waiting inside.

"Have a great night," he said over his shoulder before the door shut. His words had a bite, and I pulled my jacket closer.

Before Miles could yell something explicit—and no doubt sexual—back, I clamped my hand over his mouth.

"Stop," I hissed, waiting for the door to the bar to swing close before I turned to face him, shoving his hand off my waist.

"What? I was trying to help you."

"Help me?" I scoffed, crossing my arms. "How the fuck was that helpful, Miles?"

He blinked, and I realized he was actually confused. "I thought we were trying to make him jealous. That's what you were doing at the diner."

So maybe he wasn't as clueless as I thought.

"I wasn't. . . Well, I was. But—" I sighed, looping my arm through his as we began to walk the short distance to my apartment. "It doesn't matter," I grumbled eventually.

"Who's the redhead?"

"Sat—Santana," I corrected. "His girlfriend."

Miles nodded as we walked, the sound of his boots echoing off the sidewalk. "You want a guy that has a girlfriend, and you're fucking me instead." I nudged his shoulder and he laughed, tugging me tighter. "Poor little Eden."

"Fuck you," I mumbled.

"You already have," he whispered, stopping to pull me to his chest. "Many times."

And when he lowered his face to mine, I let him kiss me.

When we stumbled into my apartment, falling onto my bed together, I let Miles undress me; let his hands, his lips, wander down my body, the feel of his tongue-piercing cool on my skin.

Our skin was slick with sweat and there was a moment when I gazed at him and saw Truman staring back. Then I blinked, and it was Miles under me, eyes closed, mouth parted, as his hands gripped my hips, pushing them against him.

It was easy, sex. With Miles, there were no feelings. No butterflies. No promises that made my heart feel like an enemy every time it beat too loudly.

This was uncomplicated. Hence the no-strings-attached.

With Truman, there were too many strings that it created a knot. And just thinking about having to untie it made my head pound, my fingers shake.

"Eden." Miles moaned my name but all I could think about was the way Truman had when we were pressed together in that closet, his mouth on mine.

I was grateful when Miles flipped me onto my back, his head hovering below my waist as my legs locked around his neck.

Like I said, this was easier.

Forgetting always was.

_______________________

ok so... thoughts on Santana?