My eyes sting, like they're seconds from spilling over, and it's not just him. It'severything.
The anger clawing at me because of him. The worry gnawing at me ever since Sam dropped that 9-1-1. Because my worry had been real. My fear had been real. I thought she was sick or hurting and all alone.
And now this—this stupid confrontation I never wanted, shoved in my face whether I'm ready or not. It all crashes together inside me until I can't separate one feeling from the next.
And because the universe hates me, my body does what it always does when I'm this overwhelmed, this furious—I cry.
Or at least, I almost do. My throat locks up, my eyes blur, my chest feels like it's caving in.
And God, that just makes me angrier. Because the last thing I want right now is for Zach freaking Westbrook to see me cry.
He doesn't get to do this to me. He doesn't.
His face changes the second he sees it —that gloss building in my eyes I can't blink away. The hard lines ease. His brows twitch, then pull together just slightly, like the sight of me blinking back tears cuts deeper than he's ready for.
His eyes—silver and searching—wobble in the quietest way, like they're caught between panic and something unbearably soft.
Before I can look away, his hand comes up. Slow. Almost hesitant, but not enough to stop him. His palm fits against my cheek, thumb brushing the corner of my eye with maddening gentleness—catching a tear before it can even fall.
"Hey..." His voice dips, low and coaxing, threaded with a kind of affection that knocks the air out of my lungs. "Why are you crying?"
The world shrinks to that single touch. His skin on mine. His breath close enough I can almost feel it.
My heart thrashes like it's trying to escape, like it wants to leap straight into his hand and give itself up.
And my stupid body—traitor that it is—leans the tiniest fraction into him. Like it remembers what it feels like to belong there. Like it doesn't care that he's the reason I built walls in the first place.
It's too much. His eyes hold mine, unblinking, pulling me under. Every second stretches until it's unbearable, until I swear if he doesn't look away, I'll combust right here in front of him.
And right then—like a bucket of ice water—my inner sass monster shrieks in my head.
Move, idiot. Unless you want to melt into a pathetic puddle at the feet of the guy who broke your heart. Snap the hell out of it.
And just like that, it's as if a switch flicks. The trance of his stupid, beautiful eyes shatters.
I jerk my head away, breaking his touch like it burns, and take a quick step back. My hand shoots up, snatching my phone from his grip with more force than necessary. I don't even look at him as I turn, spine stiff, every ounce of me screaming for distance.
"You should leave, Zach." My voice comes out low, flat, resigned—the sound of someone too wrung out to keep fighting. "I'm tired. I don't want to talk to you."
I walk toward my bed without glancing back, each step measured, deliberate, like it's the only thing keeping me from crumbling.
"No." Zach's voice cuts through the room, firm, defiant. "We are going to talk."
"I... I'm tired," I whisper, dragging out the words like lead. "Just leave."
"No, Caroline." He steps closer, voice low but steel-wrapped. "I'm not leaving. We're gonna sit down and talk like two grown-ups and fix what needs fixing."
"I don't want to!"
"And I'm saying no to that!"
My chest heaves. "God, you're so infuriating, Zach! Why can't you just leave me alone?!"
His hands fly out, then rake back through his hair, frustration carved into every sharp line of his face.
"I did! I left you alone for three fuckin' years, didn't I?" His voice cracks on the last word, rough and ragged. "Not that I had a choice since you blocked me everywhere and vanished into thin air. But I'm done waiting, Caroline. Done!"
I crash onto the edge of my bed, elbows on my knees, my head bowed. My fingers press against my temples, sliding down to my cheeks.
