The kind who never has to try.
And Dax?
He’s letting her.
Hand on her thigh. Arm stretched along the booth. Head tipped back as she laughs against his neck.
Indifferent.
Bored.
Comfortable.
And I want to die.
I have to serve their table.
Of course I do.
I walk toward them on shaking legs disguised as steady ones. My chest cracks a little more with each step.
She doesn’t even look at me. She’s too busy worshipping the god beneath her.
“You want me to pour it?” I ask.
She hums, still not glancing my way. “He’ll do it.”
Of course he will.
I place the last glass down and meet his eyes.
Just for a second.
Regret.
Guilt.
Want.
A storm.
Gone.
“You can go now,” he says flatly.
I nod.
Then walk away.
Back into the noise.
Back into the dark.
Back into pain.
The tears hit hard and humiliating behind my lashes. I don’t even know why I’m about to cry over a man I met once. But I am.
It hurts.
