doesn’t defend himself,
or leave.
His gaze is on the floor, posture rigid.
Elle’s eyes fly to me, sizing me up. “So good luck, sweetheart,” she says. “This one? He looks good, eats even better—obviously. It’s Andrew. But don’t mistake his sad-boy-savage stare for substance.” Her laugh leaves sideways. “Decent dick, zero depth. Just make sure to wipe him down first.”
Fuck.
That one cut deep,
hurt even me,
right in my chest, and I have no idea why.
I stand straighter.
Everything else fades.
Except Andrew,
and the fire burning a hole in me.
He’s not moving.
The vein in his neck is popping from clenching so hard,
his gaze reaching for the floor.
Like he doesn’t want anyone to see the truth in his eyes.
I don't know if he's innocent,
but he didn't object, lie, retaliate.
She gut him, and he just stood there and bled.
And that’s what makes me speak up.
“Yeah, you don’t sound broken up. You sound cut off, and it’s fuckin’ gross.” I drag my stare across her. “If you ever gave a shit about him, you wouldn’t be out here tryin’ to humiliate him.”
Andrew's stunned still, confused, brows twisted, lips parted,
not expecting me to defend him.
“And for the record?” My gaze swings to him. “He’s substantial.”
The vein in his neck relaxes.
His mouth closes, and he swallows.
“Substantial,” he repeats,
as if the word tastes like a lie.
I shrug, fighting a smile.
“And compelling… steady… perceptive.”
