“I think,” he said quietly, eyes on the bag, “It’s probably better if I grab a hotel tonight. We can talk tomorrow.”
She gasped.
It wasn’t dramatic. It was tiny—choked and barely audible—but he heard it like a siren.
“No—Dylan, please—” Her voice broke as her hand flew to her mouth, tears already spilling down her cheeks.
He turned around slowly.
Ali was crying, full and raw, trying to speak through the rush of panic. “I didn’t mean it like that—I wasn’t trying to hide you—I just… I froze. I panicked. I didn’t want her to hurt you or twist anything or—”
“Ali,” he said, holding up a hand. Not sharp. Just quiet. Measured. “Breathe.”
She tried, but it hitched. Her shoulders shook with the effort. She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand, hiccupping through it.
Then—a soft knock at the bedroom door.
Dylan stood slowly and crossed the room, his footsteps quiet on the hardwood. He opened the door just a crack.
Ashley stood on the other side, her expression drawn with concern. “I heard—”
“I’ve got it, Ash. Thanks,” he said, calm and steady, no heat in his voice. Just tired. Anchored.
Ashley glanced past him to Ali, whose face was blotchy and wet and whose fingers trembled at her sides. Ali gave the smallest wave, her lips pressed tight.
Ashley hesitated, but nodded once and stepped back. “Okay. Just holler.”
Dylan closed the door gently behind her. Then turned back to Ali.
He took a long breath.
Then another.
And finally—finally—he sat on the edge of the bed. Far enough to give her space. Close enough to show he hadn’t walked out yet.
“Okay,” he said. “Talk.”
He watched her for a long moment. The hiccupping breaths. The way her fingers twisted in the hem of her t-shirt dress. Her eyes, rimmed with red but locked on his like she was begging him not to go—not yet.
So he didn’t.
He waited.
Finally, she spoke.
“When I was in the hospital,” Ali said, her voice barely above a whisper, “They diagnosed me with Borderline Personality Disorder. I didn’t even know what that meant at the time. I just…I thought I was broken.”
Dylan didn’t move. Didn’t breathe too loud. He just listened.
“I’ve spent years in therapy trying to understand it. To manage it. Tolivewith it. And I have. Mostly. But there are still triggers.” Her voice cracked, but she powered through. “Fear of abandonment is one of them. And tonight…Jenna?Shewas the trigger.”
She swallowed hard, voice trembling.
“I saw her and it was like I was twenty again. Weak. Ashamed. Disposable. And you—you—you’re the only good thing I ever had from that time in my life, and I panicked. Because the second she looked at me, I felt like I didn’t deserve you.”
Dylan’s chest tightened.
Ali’s hands balled into fists in her lap.
