"No." My brother would walk in, not lurk. Miguel's not subtle about his protection.
Nathan insists on walking me to my car after dinner, because apparently Harvard also teaches that women need escorting through well-lit parking lots. My phone's been buzzing consistently, each vibration feeling like a small electric shock against my hip.
We stop by my beat-up Civic—the one with the passenger mirror held on by duct tape and hope—and Nathan gets this look. The one that says he's about to do something we'll both regret.
"Lena," he starts, stepping closer. "I know things are complicated for you, but I think we could—"
And then he kisses me.
It's technically perfect. Soft pressure, appropriate duration, proper head tilt. Like he learned it from a YouTube tutorial called "How to Kiss Without Seeming Threatening." It tastes like his craft beer and good intentions and absolutely nothing that makes my body respond. My vagina practically yawns.
I pull back, and his face falls like I've just told him his surgical technique needs work.
"I'm seeing someone," I say, which is hilarious because I'm not seeing anyone. I'm texting a stranger who makes me come with audio files, who's currently blowing up my phone with what I can only assume are death threats, who I've met exactly once in a diner where we didn't even touch.
"Who is he?" Nathan's voice has an edge now, like a scalpel that's been dropped one too many times.
"Someone savage," I answer, because my brain-to-mouth filter is apparently on strike.
Nathan blinks. "Savage? Lena, you deserve better than—"
"Than what? Than someone who doesn't fit your Boston blueprint? Than someone who doesn't have the right degree from the right school?" My phone buzzes again. "I'm not a renovation project, Nathan. I'm not a fixer-upper you can flip for your emotional real estate portfolio."
"That's not what I—"
"Thanks for dinner. But I'm good where I am. Complicated and all."
I get in my car and drive away, leaving him standing there looking like I just told him his fellowship isn't as prestigious as he thinks.
My phone has seventeen texts.
Bad Decision:He touched you.
Bad Decision:I saw him touch you.
Bad Decision:I'll kill him.
Bad Decision:Angel.
Bad Decision:ANGEL.
I pull over in a Walgreens parking lot, my hands shaking as I type.
He kissed me.
Bad Decision:I'll fucking kill him.
Me:You don't even know him.
Bad Decision:Don't need to. He touched what's mine.
My entire body responds to that word—mine—like I've been defibrillated. It should make me angry, this possessive caveman bullshit. Instead, I'm wet, aching, and typing with trembling fingers.
I'm not yours.
Bad Decision:Yes you are. Have been since that first voice note.
That's not how belonging works.
