The worst part was how much I needed him.
I'd never needed anyone like this. Never let myself need anyone, because needing meant vulnerability, and vulnerability meant pain. The Langfords didn't need. They used, leveraged, and strategized. Needing was weakness.
But somewhere in those weeks of shared dinners and quiet evenings, of learning how he took his coffee and which books made him smile, Vance had become essential. Not like air or water—nothing so simple. More like gravity. The force that kept me tethered to the earth when everything else wanted to spin away.
Without him, I was floating. Untethered. Lost.
And he didn't even seem to notice.
I started to understand what I was to him.
A project. A problem to be solved and then set aside. He'd rescued me from the wedding, given me a place to hide, and now the hiding was supposed to end. I was supposed to figure out my life, get a job, find somewhere else to live. That had always been the plan.
I'd just been foolish enough to think the plan had changed.
The night I waited up for him and fell asleep on the couch, I woke to his hand on my shoulder and his voice saying my name. For one perfect, sleepy moment, I forgot to be guarded. Forgot to pretend I wasn't desperate for his attention.
"I wanted to see you," I said. "You've been gone so much."
And I watched his face close like a door slamming shut.
"Go to bed, Tobias."
Not "stay." Not "I missed you too." Just my name and a command, delivered in a voice so cold it burned.
I went to bed. But I didn't sleep. I lay in the dark and felt something inside me start to crack.
The next morning, I began to plan my exit.
Not dramatically. Not with tears or confrontations. Just quietly, practically, the way I'd been taught. I had no money, but I had skills. I could find work somewhere. A restaurant, maybe. I'd gotten decent at cooking. Or a cleaning service. Something that would pay enough for a room, a bed, a life that didn't depend on the charity of a man who couldn't bear to be near me.
I started folding his clothes.
The clothes he'd lent me. The Army t-shirt I'd worn since that first morning, soft from years of washing, smelling like detergent and something that was just him. The sweatpants I'd rolled up at the ankles because they were too long. The socks I'd borrowed and never returned.
Each item I folded was a piece of him I had to give back. Each crease I smoothed was a goodbye I wasn't ready to say.
I didn't hear him come in.
"What are you doing?"
His voice came from the doorway, and I didn't look up. Couldn't look up. If I looked at him, I'd break, and I was so tired of breaking.
"Organizing."
"Those are my clothes."
"I know. I've been borrowing them." Fold. Smooth. Stack. "I thought I should give them back."
Silence. I could feel him watching me, the weight of his attention like a physical pressure, but I kept my eyes on the fabric in my hands.
"Why?"
"Because I've been here too long." The words came out steady. I was proud of that. "I've been taking advantage of your kindness, and I should figure out what comes next. Find a job. A room to rent. Something."
"You don't have to do that."
"I do." I finally looked up, and the crack inside me widened at his expression. Guilt. Surprise. And beneath it, something that looked almost like pain. "You've made it clear you don't want me here. I'm not going to keep forcing myself on someone who can barely stand to be in the same room with me."
