“I’m fine.” It’s a lie, and we both know it.
He exhales, quiet and controlled. “You don’t have to be.”
“Yes.” My voice cracks, humiliatingly soft. “I do.”
I wrap my arms around myself, but it’s useless. I can still feel the echo of his hand at my waist and the warmth where our palms pressed together hours ago. They cling to me like fingerprints I can’t scrub off. He takes one tiny step closer, slow enough that I can walk away if I need to, but I don’t.
“What’s going on?” he asks quietly. “You were… fine all night, and now you’re pulling back so fast I can’t keep up.”
The bewildered edge to his voice lands in the center of the ache I’m trying so desperately to ignore. I am pulling back. I can feel it in every shaky breath, every inch of distance I’m stuffing between us before I ruin everything I’ve spent years building. If I don’t pull back now, I won’t be able to. If I stay in this hallway with him for even one more minute, I’m going to make the one mistake I can’t take back.
I drag in a shaky breath, fighting the urge to reach for him, to hold on to something I have no right wanting. “Kyle, please. Don’t— Don’t be kind to me right now.”
His brows pull together, hurt flickering across his mouth. “Why not?”
“Because I won’t survive it,” I whisper.
The confession cracks something open between us. Silence swells, thick and heavy, with every emotion I’m not allowed to name. He watches me like I’m slipping through his fingers, and he’s terrified to grab too hard, terrified he’ll make me fall apart if he does. And I hate how right he is. How easily I could crumble if he gave me even an inch of tenderness.
“Alycia…” His voice is bruised. “Talk to me.”
I want to so badly it physically hurts. I want to tell him his touch felt like home and that his hand in mine steadied me in ways nothing else ever has. I want to tell him I’ve never been more afraid of wanting someone. That I don’t know how to want a man who could cost me everything I’ve fought to build.
But that truth would ruin us both. So, instead, I force my spine straight—every vertebra trembling—and give him the only thing I can: distance that feels like cutting off my own air supply.
“We need to go,” I whisper, not trusting my voice with anything else. “The car is waiting.” His eyes search mine with quiet devastation, like he’s trying to memorize something before it disappears. Then henods slowly, and the understanding in that simple movement almost breaks me.
We start walking again, side by side but miles apart, heading toward the door that leads to the waiting town car. With each step, it feels like I’m peeling away a layer of skin. Every inch of space between us is a wound I gave myself. I’m walking toward a choice I’m not strong enough to make.
Kyle walks beside me in silence, matching my pace, contained in that selfless way he gets when he senses I’m breaking. It’s like he’s holding himself together for both of us, even though I can feel his hurt trailing behind us like a shadow.
“You don’t have to shut me out,” he murmurs, low enough that the words settle in the space between us like a plea. “Not after tonight.”
I close my eyes for a breath that doesn’t steady anything. “I’m not shutting you out.”
“You’re running.” His exhale is soft, almost a laugh. But there’s no humor in it.
“I’m trying to breathe,” I whisper, staring at the floor because looking at him might undo the last thread holding me together. “There’s a difference.”
“Sweetheart.” His voice is nearly a whisper. “Let me in.”
God, I want to so badly it aches, but wanting him has never been the problem. Keeping him would be. “Please… I just want to go home.”
By the time we reach the back exit, my throat is tight and raw, like I’ve swallowed somethingsharp, and it’s lodged just below my ribs. Kyle reaches for the door to open it but pauses, his hand braced on the frame, body angled toward mine like he’s giving me one last chance to choose him.
“Alycia… what happened in there?—”
“Don’t.”
He flinches like I hit something tender, and guilt slices through me, but the panic is louder.
“I’m not trying to push you,” he says, voice rough. “I just… tonight meant something. To both of us.”
My spine goes rigid because hearing him name the thing I’ve been trying to hold at arm’s length makes my whole chest seize.
“It can’t mean anything,” I whisper, barely getting the words out. “Kyle… it can’t.”
“Why? Because of your job?”
