“She already loves you,” he says. My heart aches at the truth in that. “She deserves stability.”
“I am stable.”
“You’re temporary.”
The word hits like a slap.
I stiffen. “Excuse me?”
“This job,” he says. “The summer.”
“You think I’m disposable?”
“No.”
“But you think I’ll leave.”
“You will.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
Something inside me hardens. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”
“I’m not deciding,” he says. “I’m protecting.”
“From what?”
“From me.”
Silence stretches between us. I search his face. “You think you’ll hurt me?”
“I think I’ll want you too much.”
My breath trembles. “And that’s bad?”
“For you.”
“I’m not fragile.”
“I know that,” he snaps softly. “That’s what makes this worse.”
His hand drops from my waist like it burns him.
He steps back, cold air floods between us.
“You don’t get to kiss me like that and then retreat again,” I say, steady but shaking.
“I do if it keeps things from breaking.”
“I won’t be someone’s almost.”
His jaw tightens. “I’m not asking you to be.”
“You are,” I counter. “You want me. You touch me. You look at me like I’m something you’ve already decided belongs to you. And then you act like I’m a mistake waiting to happen.”
He goes still. “I don’t think you’re a mistake.”
