Because whoever it was, they didn’t deserve the sound of her laughter. Not even close.
She talked, and I let her. Something about sugar ratios and how grocery store cookies were emotional crimes, and I just listened—really listened. Her voice was lighter than before. The tension that usually lived in her shoulders had eased, her arms loose, hands dancing in the air with every ridiculous claim she made about the superiority of waffle cones.
And for the first time in weeks—maybe months—I felt something inside me let go. Just a little. Enough to breathe.
She was laughing. She was happy. And I could’ve killed the man who tried to take that from her.
Then it happened.
Her fingers slipped.
The cone tumbled from her hand in slow motion, a lopsided, sugary missile headed straight for the leather seat. I reached without thinking—but not fast enough. It splattered. White and sticky, smearing across the dark upholstery like some kind of insult.
She went still.
And then she broke.
“Oh gosh,” she whispered, voice already shaking. Her hands flew to her face. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to! Please don’t be mad! I'll… I'll fix it. I promise."
Tears welled, fast and hot, spilling down her cheeks in silent panic. She reached for the mess and smeared it more, trying to clean it with nothing but desperation and a napkin that wouldn’t hold up.
“I’ll pay to get it cleaned, I swear. Just—don’t be mad at me.”
It was a mess. A nothing accident. But the way she was falling apart told me everything I needed to know.
“Freckles,” I said, my voice low, calm—but I was anything but calm inside.
“I’ll fix it—I’ll fix it,” she hiccuped. “I didn’t mean?—”
“Stop.”
That one word, solid and sharp, quieted her instantly. She froze, fingers trembling, eyes still wide and wild.
“Look at me,” I said, softer now. Not a command—an anchor.
Her gaze met mine, and it nearly shattered me. Not because of the tears. But because of the fear behind them.
“This doesn’t matter,” I said, nodding toward the ice cream. “It’s just a seat.”
But deep down, I knew what this was really about.
And I was going to find out exactly how deep Mikel’s damage went.
I pulled over, smooth and silent, the tires whispering against the pavement. Shifted the car into park. The engine hummed beneath us, the only sound in a street gone utterly still—like the world knew to hold its breath.
“It’s just ice cream,” I said, keeping my voice even. Controlled. “You don’t need to cry over an accident.”
But inside? I was anything but calm.
That reaction wasn’t about a mess on leather. It wasn’t about sugar. It was fear—trained fear. The kind that didn’t come from one bad day. It came from repetition. From knowing exactly what happened when something broke, spilled, or made noise.
She wouldn’t meet my eyes. Looked out the window instead, like if she stared hard enough, she could disappear into the glass. Her fingers clenched around the useless napkin she’d used to wipe the seat, still trembling. Still apologizing, even in silence.
My jaw clenched.
I thought back to the locker room—how Mikel had looked when he thought no one else could see. That flash of fury. The lift of his hand. The way his posture changed, not like he was bracing for a fight… but delivering punishment.
Not impulsive. Practiced.
