Instead, I stay.
I’m tired of running.
I clear my throat, voice rough, needing to change the narrative of the moment. “I saw Grant.”
“What?”
“I . . . didn’t tell him anything.”
His eyes snap to mine, cold and sharp. “Grant was there? Nico didn’t mention that . . .”
I regret telling him instantly. I should have kept it to myself. But it’s out now, hanging between us, making my stomach tighten in fear.
“Yes, he was there.” I lift my chin. “At my parents’ house. Asking questions.”
Lorenzo’s jaw tightens, and the room feels like it drops ten degrees.
“And you told him what?”
I swallow hard. “As I said before, I didn’t tell him anything.”
His gaze searches my face like he’s looking for a lie. I hold still because he won’t find anything.
“Why not?” he asks, voice low.
“Because I didn’t want you to—” I whisper.
“To what?”
“Get hurt.”
He leans back slowly, like he needs distance from that confession, and drags a hand down his face.
“Christ. You really are going to ruin me twice.”
My chest tightens. “I didn’t do anything.”
“You don’t even realize you’re holding the knife.”
My throat bobs. “Then take it away.”
Lorenzo’s mouth curves, dark and bitter. “I can’t.” The word hangs there.
Heavy.
Too honest.
I stare at him, my voice barely a breath. “Why?”
His eyes lock onto mine, unblinking, and for a second, the cruelty peels back far enough that I can see the raw thing underneath. He shifts closer, not touching, but close enough that I feel him.
“You want the truth?”
My pulse jumps. “No.”
His mouth twitches. “Liar.”
I swallow hard. “Fine. Yes.”
