The rejection lands like a slap.
“K—”
“I thought—” His voice is wrecked. Raw. He won’t look at me. “You are not—” He stops. Jaw works. “Forgive me.”
The words land flat. Formal. Like he’s apologizing for stepping on my foot instead of kissing me senseless.
Like I’m a mistake he needs to correct.
He’s on his feet before I can respond. Across the shelter, back to me, breathing hard.
The warmth from moments ago… gone. Replaced by walls so high I can’t see over them.
I stay where I am, heart thumping, trying to make sense of it all.
He kissed me. Or… No. He kissed me while half-asleep, confused, probably thinking I was—
Actually, I don’t know what he was thinking. Just that whatever it was, it wasn’tme. Wasn’t this mess of a woman with zero survival skills who he’s been babysitting for three days.
Of course it wasn’t you. Look at you.
“K—”
“We leave.” His voice is clipped. Cold. Each word precise. “Now.”
“It’s barely dawn—”
“The operatives may expand their search.” He’s already moving, gathering supplies. Not looking at me. Not acknowledging what just happened. “We cannot afford to remain stationary.”
I push to my feet, arms wrapped around myself. The vest he gave me suddenly feels too thin. Too exposed.
“K, you were dreaming. You didn’t—”
“I am aware of what I did.” Each word is clipped. Precise. “It will not happen again.”
The professionalism in his tone is somehow worse than anger would be.
The dismissal stings more than it should. More than it has any right to.
He kissed me because he was confused. Half-asleep. Disoriented. That’s not personal. That’s not about me being inadequate or wrong or not the kind of woman someone like him would—
Except it is. Because for thirty seconds, I let myself believe that heat was real. That someone was choosing me, wanting me, seeing me as something worth holding onto.
And then he woke up.
Story of my life, really. Temporary. Placeholder. Wrong girl.
The one who makes jokes when things get too real.
My throat tightens. Eyes burn.
Don’t you dare cry.
I won’t. I’ve gotten good at this part—the swallowing down, the building back up, the pretending it doesn’t matter.
I pull my walls up. The ones I’ve built through years of being temporary, unwanted, left behind. Familiar armor that fits like a second skin.
“Fine,” I say, matching his cold tone. “Let’s go.”
