“Yes,” she whispers, “I do.”
Her words hit harder than they should. I turn away, jaw tight. “Don’t.”
She frowns. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t look at me like that.”
“How am I looking at you?”
“Like you see things I don’t want people seeing.”
Quiet falls between us. Heavy. Loaded.
She watches me with that soft, stubborn expression that always gets under my skin.
“I’m allowed to care,” she says quietly.
I go still. Because that word—care—does something fierce to my insides.
“No,” I say. “You’re not.”
She flinches.
I hate that. More than I should.
“Lucy,” I say, softer, “I didn’t mean?—”
“Forget it.” She forces a smile. “It’s fine.”
She’s lying. I can tell by the way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. She only does that when she’s trying to hide something.
“You should go,” I say gruffly. “It’s getting late.”
“I know.”
She heads toward the exit. Something claws at my chest. Before I can stop myself, I say, “Lucy.”
She stops. Turns halfway. Her eyes are softer now. Brighter. Sadder.
I swallow. “Thank you,” I manage. “For the cookies.”
“Oh.” Her throat bobs. “You’re welcome.”
Her voice is shaky. Mine is worse. “They were… nice.”
She stares at me for a long time. Like she’s searching for something. Like she’s trying to understand me when I barely understand myself.
Then she says quietly, “You’re allowed to be happy, you know.”
I freeze.
She takes a tiny step closer. “You’re allowed to have good days. You’re allowed to let people do nice things for you.” Her voice trembles. “You’re allowed to let me.”
My chest aches. She doesn’t look away. Not once. Hell. She’s going to destroy me.
I take a step toward her. Then another. We’re inches apart now.
Close enough that I feel her breath. Close enough that my hands want to grab her waist. Close enough that I catch myself leaning in—then I force myself to stop.
