My clothes are scattered across the floor—jeans, tank top, bra, underwear, marking the path from door to bed like evidence of my terrible decisions.
I grab my underwear first, pulling them on as quietly as possible.
Then my bra.
My hands are shaking.
"Where are you going?"
His voice makes me freeze, jeans halfway up my thighs.
I don't turn around. "Home."
"It's three in the morning."
"So?"
"So you're still drunk and it's not safe."
"I'm fine." I yank my jeans up, fasten them. "Thanks for the ride. And the—" I gesture vaguely at the bed. "This was fun."
Fun.
Like it was just another hookup.
Like it didn't mean anything.
Like my heart isn't trying to claw its way out of my chest right now.
"Ingrid."
"I should go."
"Look at me."
I can't.
If I look at him, if I see whatever expression is on his face right now, I'll break.
"This was a mistake," I say, grabbing my tank top from the floor. "I’m drunk and this shouldn't have happened and?—"
"Stop."
"Stop what?"
"Running."
The word hits like a slap.
I spin around, clutching my tank top to my chest. "I'm not running."
He's sitting up now, sheet pooled around his waist, hair messed up from my hands, looking at me with those eyes that see too much.
"Yes, you are. You've been running for longer than I can remember."
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't I?" He stands, completely unbothered by his nakedness, and crosses the room to me. "You spiral, you post about it, I come get you. You push everyone away and pretend you don't need anyone. You act like you're only good for one thing because a few assholes convinced you that was true."
