“You don’t have to ask. You just step back. You go cold. You call me ‘Tessa’ instead of Tess. You build walls and expect me to live inside them.”
“That’s not?—”
“It is.”
Silence stretches tight. The suitcase sits open between us like a line drawn.
Her gaze doesn’t waver. I step into the room fully now. “You’re not leaving.”
She exhales slowly. “You don’t get to command me.”
“I’m not commanding you.”
“It sounded like it.”
My eyes drag over the suitcase again. Clothes neatly folded. Shoes lined at the bottom. No drama. No mess.
She planned this.
“When?” I ask.
“In the morning.”
My stomach drops. “Lacee knows?”
“No.”
The relief is sharp and immediate. “She adores you.”
“I adore her too.”
“Then don’t walk out.”
“I’m not walking out on her,” she says firmly. “I’m walking away from something that’s hurting me.”
My chest tightens. “You’re hurting?”
“Yes.”
The honesty hits harder than accusation.
“You don’t get to look surprised,” she continues. “You pull me close and then you push me away like you’re afraid I’ll burn you.”
“Maybe I am.” The admission lands heavy between us.
Her expression shifts—not soft. Not pitying. Understanding.
“I’m not the fire that took her,” she says gently.
I close my eyes for half a second. “I know.”
“Then stop treating me like I am.” The silence hums. “You think I don’t see what you’re doing?” she presses.
“Enlighten me.”
“You stand close enough to feel me. You touch me like you’ve already chosen me. But you never say it.”
I swallow.
