Like prey.
Like she’s bracing.
That hits something primal in me.
Not anger at her—never that.
Anger at whatever taught her she has to run when she’s happy.
I cross the room in three strides, stopping close enough that she has to tilt her head up to look at me.
“Mila,” I say, low.
Her voice is shaky. “Beau.”
She tries to step back.
I catch her wrist—gentle, firm. Not trapping. Just stopping her from vanishing.
“Don’t,” I growl.
Her breath stutters. “You can’t just?—”
“I can,” I cut in. My thumb strokes the pulse point at her wrist, and I feel it hammering like a scared bird. “Because you don’t get to leave me a note and disappear like last night didn’t happen.”
Mila swallows hard, gaze flicking around like she’s afraid someone’s watching.
Nobody is.
And even if they were, I don’t care.
“Beau,” she whispers, pleading. “I panicked.”
“I know.”
The fact that I know doesn’t soften me. It makes me steadier.
I step closer until she’s backed against the counter. Not pinned—she has space to move—but she feels me there, solid and real.
“You ran because you’re scared,” I say, voice rough. “Not because you don’t want me.”
Her eyes flash. “You don’t know that.”
I lift my free hand and tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Slow. Careful.
“I do know,” I say. “Because I’ve been you.”
Her throat tightens. “No you haven’t.”
“Yeah,” I murmur. “I have.”
Mila’s eyes shine like she’s fighting tears. “Then why didn’t you tell me?”
Because I don’t tell anyone anything that matters.
Because the last time I did, I watched it get taken.
I inhale, forcing my ribs to expand, forcing air into a chest that wants to lock down.
