He stares at me for a long second before leaning back in his chair, shaking his head. “You’ve got everyone feeling sorry for you because of your daddy issues and your trauma or whatever—and yeah, man, I get it. I’d fight everyone and everything for you, I swear, but you’re not the only one who’s been through hell. Nova’s got her own scars, and she’s still fighting every single day to love you through yours. And what do you do? You punish her for it.”
I look up, and his gaze is sharp, unforgiving.
“She’s the one chasing you, waiting for you, forgiving you every damn time you push her away. And for what? For you to stand here acting like some tragic hero who’s ‘too broken’ to love? Get over yourself, V.”
I start pacing again, because sitting still feels impossible. “It’s not like that,” I mutter. “You think Iwantto hurt her? You think Ilikethis?”
“No,” Steven says flatly, “but you’redoing it anyway. And that’s the problem. You think not choosing is safer, but it’s still a choice. You think walking away spares her, but it’s just another wound you leave behind.”
I stop and stare at him, chest tight.
He stands now, crosses the room, and grabs my shoulders, forcing me to look at him. “She loves you more than anything, Vincent. And I’ve never seen anyone love like that. It’s terrifying, it’s raw, it’s... yeah, it’s a little pathetic, if I’m being honest. But she’sall in. And she won’t be forever. One day she’s going to realize she deserves better. Someone who actually fights for her instead of hiding behind excuses.”
I swallow hard, throat burning.
He lets go of me with a shove and mutters, “If I were her, I’d have told you to fuck off months ago. Hell, if I were a woman, I’d have toldmeto fuck off if I pulled that shit.” He rubs his temple, sighs. “So yeah, man, stop being a coward. Go to her. Right now. Apologize. Beg if you have to. Dosomethingbefore she stops believing you ever cared.”
The room goes quiet except for the faint hum of the fridge. His words hang between us like a weight I can’t escape.
I finally breathe out. “You really think she’ll even listen?”
He meets my eyes, softer now but still firm. “She always listens. That’s the problem. But if you wait much longer...” His voice trails off, and for the first time, there’s a hint of pity there. “If you wait much longer, she won’t.”
––––––––
•*?? . ??? ??.•*??
I’m halfway down the block toward my father’s car when I freeze. Across the street, Maggie is cornered in front of a clothing store, arguing with a man at least twice her age. His voice carries, low and sharp, though I can’t make out the words. His body leans forward, too close, his hand cutting the air in gestures that feel more like warnings than conversation.
My stomach twists. Maggie has never been the type to need rescuing—if anything, she’s the one other people are afraid of. But the sight of her pressed back against the shop window, chin lifted like a shield, makes something coil in my chest. It’s not that she looks weak; it’s that she looks like she can’t afford to blink.
Before I’ve thought it through, I’m striding toward them. The man notices me first. His eyes flick over my frame, calculating, and then he turns sharply on his heel, vanishing between parked cars before I can say a word.
“Hey,” I manage, voice catching in my throat.
Maggie’s head snaps toward me. Her face is pale, drained, and for a moment there’s naked fear in her eyes. Then, just as quickly, the shutters slam down. She crosses her arms tight over her chest and leans against the glass, casual in a way that’s too forced. “What are you doing here, fucking douchebag?”
“I’m heading to your place. I need to talk to Nova.” I pause, trying to read her expression. “Didn’t know you came around this area. Who was your friend?”
She pushes off the window so suddenly I flinch. In two strides she’s in front of me, fingers curled into the lapels of my jacket. Her grip is hard, knuckles white. Her voice is low, urgent, edged with something close to panic. “Listen, Vincent, you don’t have to tell any—”
“I won’t,” I interrupt, softer but firm. “Look, I’m the last person on earth who has the right to judge you. I didn’t see anything. Okay?”
The fight in her posture falters. Her fingers loosen but don’t drop right away; it feels like she’s holding on for balance as much as for intimidation. When she finally lets go, she takes half a step back, eyes narrowing, as though she’s weighing whether to believe me.
I turn, start walking back the way I came. Maybe it’s better to leave it there. Maybe she needs the illusion that no one saw her cornered. But after a few steps, something stops me. I glance back.
She’s still standing by the window, arms folded again, shoulders tense. Her mask is back in place, but the tremor in her jaw betrays her.
“Still...” I say, my voice carrying across the few yards between us, “if you’re ever in trouble, if you ever need a hand... remember, I live in the room across the hall from Sam’s.”
The words hang there in the cold evening air. For a long beat, Maggie doesn’t move. Then her mouth curves—not a full smile, nothing soft, but the ghost of one.
“We’re still not friends,” she says flatly, though her tone has lost some of its bite. Her gaze sharpens, and she adds, “I hope you’re going to get on your knees and beg for her forgiveness for hours!”
“I promise.” I nod.
She crosses her arms. “I swear I’ll cut your throat if you hurt her again.”
