What if I’m the first soft thing he’s touched in years and he thinks it’s love because he forgot what love feels like?
And what if he realizes that later—after I’ve already let myself fall?
I push away from the table and pace the cabin, heart galloping.
I should talk to him.
I should wait until he comes back and ask him, gently, about the woman. About what he’s running from.
But the fear in me doesn’t want gentle.
It wants escape.
Because if I leave first, it can’t hurt as much.
If I leave first, I can tell myself it was my choice.
I go to the bedroom like I’m on autopilot.
I start packing.
I shove sweaters into my duffel. I grab toiletries. I don’t fold anything. I just move fast, like speed will keep my heart from catching up.
Halfway through, I stop with one of my boots in my hand and stare at myself in the mirror.
My eyes look different.
Softer.
Wrecked.
Like a woman who was held all night and believed it.
My throat tightens so hard I have to swallow twice.
“What are you doing?” I whisper.
The answer comes anyway, ugly and honest.
Protecting myself.
I hate myself for it.
I keep packing.
I leavea note on the kitchen counter because I’m not a monster.
My handwriting shakes.
Beau,
Thank you for saving me. Thank you for… last night.
I’m sorry. I just— I can’t do this.
You deserve someone who isn’t afraid.
—Mila
