His gaze pins me in place.
“You didn’t sit,” he says quietly.
“I couldn’t,” I whisper.
Then he crosses the room.
Slow.Measured.Predatory.
But not toward danger.Towardme.
He stops inches away.
“You alright?”he murmurs.
No.
Yes.
Absolutely not.
Completely.
I settle on, “I’m trying.”
His chest rises and falls.“You did good earlier.In the truck.”
“I didn’t do anything,” I say.
A rough sound escapes him something between disbelief and frustration.“You stayed calm.You trusted me.You listened.”
“Shouldn’t I?”I ask softly.
He drops his gaze for a moment, shaking his head.
“You shouldn’t trust anybody right now,” he mutters.“Not with what’s happenin’.Not with what you’ve been through.”
I step closer not much, but enough.Enough for him to feel me.Enough for me to feel my own pulse pounding in my neck.
“But I do trust you,” I say.“More than I understand.”
His eyes close briefly, pained.
“Kelly.”
“I meant what I said,” I whisper.“I’m choosing you.Even if I don’t know the whole story.Even if I don’t know myself.”
His inhale is sharp.
“I remember pieces,” I say cautiously.“Not full memories just fragments.Feelings.Flashes.”
He lifts his head.“What kind of flashes?”
I lean back against a metal support beam, fingers gripping it behind me.
“One was in a doorway,” I say.“You were holding me.And I told you not to fall in love with me.”
His face goes still.
