Her head snaps toward me, panic flaring so fast I see it hit her like a physical blow.
“I know about Lucky Pink,” I continue quietly. “Rebel June. The tours. The tabs. The meltdown. The weeks of trying to disappear.” I take a breath. “And I know about him.”
Her whole body goes rigid.
“No.” A whisper. A warning. A plea.
“Yes,” I answer softly. “I know what he did to you. I know he’s out.”
She shakes her head violently, tears spilling over before she can stop them. “Ethan, stop.”
“You should’ve told me.”
“I don’t owe you anything!” she snaps, voice cracking. “I can take care of myself.”
“By running?” My voice turns cold. Sharper than I intend, but I don’t stop. “By climbing in a car and disappearing before sunset? That’s your grand plan?”
“It’s kept me alive.”
“Barely,” I bite out.
She recoils like I struck her.
Instant regret burns, but I push through it because I’ve spent years watching people self-destruct out of fear and calling it survival.
“Were you planning on telling me?” I ask, quieter now. “At any point? Or were we just—”
“A mistake,” she cuts in, voice trembling but defiant. “Sleeping with you was a mistake.”
The words hit harder than they should. Right square in the chest.
She sees it—and doubles down, because hurting me is easier than letting me in.
“You’re a nobody,” she says, chin lifting. “Just some small-town… handyman with a hero complex. I don’t need you. I don’t want you. And I sure as hell don’t want your pity.”
I stare at her for a long, dark moment.
Then I exhale slowly, jaw tight.
“Right,” I say. “There she is.”
Her brows knit. “There, who is?”
“The celebrity brat,” I answer icily. “The one who burns down everything good before it can be taken from her.”
She flinches.
Good.
Not because I want to hurt her.
But because it means I hit the truth.
I step back from the bed, every movement contained, deliberate—because if I stay any closer, I’ll say things I can’t take back.
“You want me gone?” I say quietly. “Fine.”
Her mouth trembles, but she lifts her chin.
