"I slept with him."
Maeve doesn't even blink. "And?"
"And it was—" How do I even say this? "It was perfect. I asked him to be rough and he was, and it was exactly what I wanted, and then I woke up and he was gone."
"Gone gone?"
"Gone. Left the apartment. I don't know where—Finn's maybe. Because I had a bruise. On my hip. From him holding me during completely consensual sex that I literally begged him for." The words are spilling faster now, tripping over each other. "And he saw it and panicked, and now he thinks he hurt me, and I've told him a thousand times I'm fine but he won't listen, he won't even look at me, and maybe—" My voice cracks. "Maybe Evan was right. Maybe I am too much."
Maeve's coffee cup hits the table. Hard. Coffee sloshes.
"Okay, first of all, fuck Evan." She leans forward, eyes blazing. "Second of all, you are not too much. You're exactly right. And third—Scout, honey, this isn't about you."
"How is it not—"
"Because Holt's scared." She says it like it's obvious. "He's terrified he hurt you. Terrified of what he's capable of. And that's his shit to work through, not yours to fix."
I press my palms into my eye sockets until I see stars. "I don't know how to make him understand."
"You can't. Not if he's not ready to hear it." Her hands close over mine, pulling them down from my face. "Look at me. You asked for what you wanted. You trusted him with that. And it was good, right? You said it was perfect."
"It was."
"Then that's the truth. Everything else is his fear talking." She picks up her coffee again, takes a long sip. "You know what my ex used to do? Not the physically abusive kind—the subtle kind. He'd make me feel like my needs were inconvenient. Like asking for anything was being demanding."
"Maeve—"
"No, listen. It took me two years after I left him to ask for what I wanted in bed. Two years. Because I'd internalized this idea that my desires were too much, too complicated, too whatever." She's looking at me hard, holding my gaze. "You're not broken for knowing what you want, Scout. You're brave."
My throat closes up. I grab my coffee, take a sip just to have something to do with my hands. "What changed? For you?"
"I met someone who listened. Who trusted me to know my own mind." A small smile crosses her face. "Who didn't treat my needs like a burden to manage. He'd ask me what I wanted and then he'd—" She waves her hand. "He'd just do it. No judgment. No making me feel weird about it."
"What happened to him?"
"He moved to Nevada for work. We're still friends." She grins. "And he taught me that the right person doesn't make you smaller. They make space for all of you."
Holt's hands on me. The way he'd looked at me before everything went wrong. How he'd listened when I told him what I wanted, given it to me without hesitation. Until he saw theevidence on my skin and decided he knew better than me what I could handle.
"So what do I do?"
"What do you want to do?"
"I don't know. I want—" I stop. Pick up my fork again, push pancake through syrup. "There's this guy. Grant. He asked me for coffee."
"And?"
"And he's nice. Uncomplicated. Normal." The word tastes wrong in my mouth. "I'm thinking about saying yes."
Maeve goes quiet. Studies me like she's reading something written on my face. "Why?"
"Because maybe I need normal. Maybe I need someone who doesn't look at me like I'm about to break."
Maeve's quiet for a second, studying me. "You're running."
"I'm not—"
"You are. And hey, sometimes running makes sense. But don't call it normal when what you mean is safe." She takes a sip of coffee. "Safe's fine. Safe has its place. But safe doesn't make you feel like your heart's trying to crawl out of your chest every time he looks at you."
