I’m angry. But not at her.
Never at her.
I’m angry at myself. At my fear. At the way I let old ghosts speak louder than the woman standing right in front of me,looking at me like I was something she wanted. Something she chose.
Because I knew.
The moment she froze in the doorway, the second her eyes tracked over my body, I knew she wasn’t repulsed. I felt it in the way her breathing changed. In the way her gaze lingered, curious and warm and unapologetically hungry. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t look away.
She looked at me. Shereachedfor me.
When she spoke, when she said those words—“I love you”—there was no hesitation in her voice. No uncertainty. Just truth, laid bare between us.
I saw it, and I still walked away.
I rake a hand through my hair and let out a breath that feels like it scrapes my ribs on the way out. Pride is a poisonous thing. Fear even more so. Together, they make a convincing case for self-destruction.
I told myself I was protecting her.
The truth is, I was protecting myself from the chance that she might eventually see me the way I do.
The cameras have gone dark. That’s the worst part. I keep checking out of habit, glancing at the feeds that used to be my anchor. Used to be filled with her. Now they’re just black mirrors reflecting my own face back at me. All I see is a man who finally understands what he’s lost.
She shut me out, and I deserve it.
Still, it guts me.
The first morning after I left, I went to her building like always. Parked where I could see the entrance. Waited. Told myself I’d just make sure she got to work safely, but she never came out. She didn’t on the next day either.
It’s been two days now, and I haven’t caught sight of her or even heard her voice. The silence is unbearable. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve stood up from this couch, keys already in my hand, body angled toward the door. Every instinct I have screams at me to go to her. To let myself into her apartment, kneel in front of her if I have to, and tell her the truth.
That I love her.
That I’ve loved her longer than I should admit.
That she is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
But every time, I stop.
Because one thing I said that night still feels carved into stone.
I’m not worthy of her love.
Not as I am. Not with the wreckage I carry. Not with the man I became after the crash, after the surgeries, after the mirrors stopped being kind.
God, I want to be worthy.
I want it so badly it feels like another kind of pain entirely.
I just don’t know how to become someone who deserves her without breaking her in the process. Until then, all I can do is sit here, on Valentine’s Day, alone with the consequences of my fear, missing the woman who finally saw me and loved me anyway.
Suddenly, there’s a sharp knock on my door. I frown slightly, tilting my head toward the sound. No one knocks on my door. Ever. Harbor House is quiet by design. The people here want to be left alone. We’re all fine with pretending we don’t exist to each other. My rent’s paid. No maintenance requests. No neighbors I talk to. The knock comes again, harder this time, like whoever’s on the other side isn’t going anywhere.
I consider ignoring it. For half a second, I almost do. I don’t want to see anyone. I don’t want to explain myself. I don’t want to be reminded of everything I fucked up.
Another knock. Followed by, “Zane.”
Georgia.
