She laughs, bright and unguarded. “It’s fucking awful.”
We both burst into easy laughter. I squeeze her knee, pulling her a little closer. Our laughter dies and silence stretches between us, not uncomfortable but charged, like the air before astorm. I can feel everything I’m not saying pressing against my ribs, clawing for the exit.
I clear my throat. “About earlier.”
Her smile fades, just a notch. “Yeah?”
“I shouldn’t have gone off like that.”
She doesn’t look at me. “You were scared.”
“I was angry.”
“At yourself.”
That hits closer to the bone than I like.
I stare at my hands. They’re still faintly stained with paint from earlier, reds and blacks caught in the lines of my skin like a confession I didn’t ask for.
“I don’t do well with… futures,” I say.
She turns toward me fully now. “I noticed.”
“I’ve spent a long time convincing myself I don’t get one,” I continue. “At least not the kind that includes… people.”
Her voice softens. “And now?”
“And now you’re here,” I say. “And you’re loud and bright and impossible to ignore, and somehow you make it feel like maybe I don’t have to disappear to survive.”
She swallows. I see it. See the way the words land and settle.
“I don’t want to be something you lose,” she says.
“I don’t want to lose you,” I answer immediately.
The honesty surprises both of us.
Her breath catches. “Boone…”
I turn to face her, really face her. “I want you,” I say, low and steady. “Completely. But only if you’re ready. Only if this is something you choose, not something I corner you into because I’m tired of being alone.”
She searches my face like she’s looking for the catch.
“You’re not cornering me,” she says slowly. “You’re standing still.”
“Yeah,” I admit. “That’s new.”
She reaches out, fingers brushing my wrist. Electricity arcs up my arm, settles heavy in my chest.
“I’m scared,” she says.
“So am I.”
She smiles, small but real. “Good.”
I huff a laugh. “You’re twisted.”
“You like it.”
