"Don't." The word cracks like a whip. "Don't make excuses for—" He cuts himself off, jaw working like he's going to be sick. "I need to go."
"Go? Go where?"
But he's already moving, grabbing his keys from the dresser with shaking hands, his jacket from the chair. His gait is uneven, rushed, like he can't get away fast enough. Not just leaving the bed but leaving the loft. I follow him to the door, bare feet on cold floor, desperate and confused and my chest feeling like it's caving in.
"Holt, stop. Please. Talk to me."
He pauses at the door, hand on the knob, knuckles white. Won't turn around. "I'm sorry."
Then he's gone, the door closing with a quiet click that sounds final.
I stand there in his shirt that falls to mid-thigh, staring at the door, trying to understand what just happened. How something so perfect, so right, turned into him running. My fingers find the bruise again, pressing harder this time until it aches properly, trying to make sense of his face when he saw it.
The loft feels too big suddenly. Too empty. Too quiet. The bed still wrecked from last night, the couch where we started, the prosthetic's knee pad left behind on the nightstand in his rush to leave—small evidence of how completely he'd let me in, and how completely he's shut me out now.
I sink onto the couch—the same couch where everything started last night—and try to make sense of it. But nothing fits. Not his gray face when he saw the bruise. Not the way he looked at me like I was broken. Not the way he said "mistake" like last night wasn't the most honest thing we've ever done.
The worst part is I don't understand. I gave him permission. Asked for it. Begged for it. And it was perfect—the trust, the surrender, the safety of letting go with someone who would catch me. The way he worked with his body's limitations, found positions that worked, never made it feel like something to hide or be ashamed of.
And now he's gone, and I'm alone in a loft that smells like us, wearing his shirt, with a bruise on my thigh that feels less like a wound and more like a promise he's too scared to keep.
Chapter 11
His truck's not here.
I'm standing at the loft window, fingers pressed against glass that's already warm, staring at the empty spot where he always parks. Second morning in a row. Yesterday he showed up at ten. Today it might be eleven. Might be noon. Might be never.
I should move. Get dressed. Go downstairs. But I can't make myself turn away from that empty parking space.
The sun's climbing fast, heat already shimmering off the asphalt. It's going to be another scorcher. Shorts weather. Tank top weather. The usual.
Except I can't wear the usual because the bruise on my hip is still visible—faded to that greenish-yellow that somehow looks worse than fresh purple—and I can't let him see it. Can't let him look at me and remember why he left.
So. Jeans it is.
I force myself away from the window and dig through the pile of clean laundry I haven't put away. Find the least tight pair I own. Pull them on and immediately start sweating. It's got to be eighty degrees already and I'm about to spend the dayin denim because I'm too chickenshit to wear shorts. Because I asked for this bruise.
My hands shake as I button the fly.
Don't think about it. Just get through today.
I grab a tank top, yank my hair into a bun that feels like it's trying to scalp me. Everything's too tight. My clothes. My chest. My throat. Like I'm holding something in that keeps threatening to spill out.
The shop floor is quiet when I come downstairs. Finn's truck is in its usual spot, driver's door hanging open like he just rolled in. Bay doors are up, floor fans already spinning, and it's just him humming off-key to some song on the radio.
No Holt.
"Morning, Gremlin!" Finn appears from behind the Chevy he's working on, grin firmly in place. "Sleep okay?"
"Yeah."
The lie tastes like blood in my mouth.
"Coffee's fresh," he says, gesturing with a wrench. "Made it strong. Figured we could both use it."
"Thanks."
I pour myself a cup, add caramel sugar, stir longer than necessary. Keep stirring even after it's dissolved. If I stop, my hands will shake and he'll see.
