“I’m sorry,” I say.
She studies me like she didn’t expect that word out of my mouth.
“For what?”
“For the trouble,” I answer honest. “For you catching heat for something that ain’t real.”
Her mouth parts slightly.
I shouldn’t say the next thing.
I do anyway, because I’m tired and she’s right there and I can’t keep swallowing it. “Sometimes,” I murmur, “I wish it was.”
Her breath catches. “What?” she whispers.
“I wish we actually had something going on,” I say, voice rougher than I mean it to be. “Might make all this worth it.”
The kitchen goes still.
She blushes slow, color climbing her throat into her cheeks. It ain’t flirtation. It ain’t coy.
It’s real.
“Don’t,” she says soft. “Don’t say things like that.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m trying,” she answers, eyes shining in that dim light. “I’m trying to do this right.”
“With Elijah?”
She nods.
“You happy?” I ask, and I already know the answer ain’t what I want.
She hesitates just long enough to tell me everything. “I’m… safe.”
That ain’t the same thing.
I push off the counter before I say something I can’t take back. “You need anything,” I tell her, “you come upstairs. Don’t matter what time.”
She nods.
I head for the couch, then stop.
“Brit.”
She looks up.
“You ain’t crazy. If you feel watched, you probably are.”
Her face goes pale.
I don’t soften it. She deserves truth more than comfort.
In the morning, I’m gone before she comes upstairs again. I ride straight to the Lockup.
Weeks pass.
