I smiled despite myself.
Me:You handled a panic attack on a bridge. You’re allowed one emotional misstep.
Wyatt:I’d like to do better than that.
Me:Tomorrow, then.
Wyatt:Tomorrow.
I set the phone down and let myself breathe.
Sleep came easier that night. Not perfect—my dreams were restless, full of Jonesy and height and motion—but when I woke the next morning, it wasn’t with dread.
It was with resolve.
I took a long shower, letting the steam work its way into my muscles, washing away the lingering embarrassment. I dressed carefully, not for Wyatt exactly, but for myself. Something that made me feel grounded. Whole.
At breakfast, Beth shot me a knowing look. “Dinner tonight.”
“Yes.”
“With him.”
“Yes.”
She grinned. “Attagirl.”
Natasha lifted her coffee. “To conversations that matter.”
I clinked my mug against hers, heart fluttering but steady.
Whatever happened next—whether Wyatt stepped forward or stayed tangled in his own shadows—I knew this much:
I hadn’t imagined the connection.
I hadn’t been foolish to want more.
And I wasn’t weak for hoping.
Dinner would tell me what I needed to know.
19
WYATT
The only reason I got even a little sleep that night was because Sophie had agreed to dinner.
Not much sleep. Maybe three hours total, broken into fragments that left me feeling worse than if I'd just stayed awake staring at the ceiling, counting my failures. But it was something. Proof that some part of me still believed I could fix this, even if I had no idea how.
I kept replaying it on loop, stuck in the worst moments like my brain was punishing me. The way she'd looked at me when she leaned in—trusting, open, brave. The kiss—soft, deliberate, everything I wanted and nothing I deserved. The moment I'd pulled away and watched hope drain from her eyes like I'd physically reached into her chest and crushed something fragile.
I had hurt her.
And the worst part? I'd done it on purpose. Told myself it was for her own good, that she deserved better than someone like me, that I was protecting her from the inevitable crash when she realized what I actually was.
Bullshit.
I was protecting myself. From the inevitable moment when she'd figure out what I was—broken, damaged, a coward who ran from everything that mattered—and leave, anyway. Better to control the ending than wait for it to happen on its own.
