Cold air hits my face. My chest. I need space. I need movement. I need to bleed this out of my system before it turns into something uglier.
For a second, she stays in the truck. Then—
“Eli,” she calls after me. “If you’re going to walk off into the woods, at least put on your coat.”
I stop.
Because even now, even like this, she’s looking out for me.
I turn back just long enough to grab the coat from the seat and shrug it on. My hands are shaking. My pulse is still too loud. I need to get home.
I need to break something. Split wood until my arms are screaming and the edge finally dulls. Until whatever violence is roaring through me runs out and leaves me with something I can control again.
I told myself I’d take this frustration out on her later. Burden her like I promised I would.
But at this very moment, I don’t trust myself to be careful.
And if I know Max, even a fraction of what I think I do, she won’t want the version of me that’s been filed down and made safe. She’ll want all of it. The heat. The rough edges. The parts I’m trying to grind down so I don’t hurt her.
She won’t accept softness.
She won’t take restraint.
And she definitely won’t take no for an answer.
So I need to calm this inside me, just a little bit, before I burden her through the fucking mattress.
I thought she stayed in the truck.
Then I hear her behind me, soft footsteps crunching against snow, light but determined.
“Max,” I call without turning. “I just need a minute!”
“I know,” she says easily. “But I’ve got this annoying little habit.” A pause. Then, closer. “I meddle when I knowmy manisn’t quite himself.”
My chest tightens at that.
Her man, eh?
I turn just enough to look at her. Her hands are tucked into her sleeves, shoulders pulled in against the cold, eyes locked on me with the quiet certainty of someone who’s already decided I’m not getting out of this.
“How long?” she asks.
I sigh, dragging a hand over my face. “How long what?”
“How long have Elliot and Vanessa been together?”
I hesitate. Long enough for him to have figured out she’s Satan in satin. “Almost two years.”
Her mouth presses into a thin line. “Did you know she was pregnant?”
“Yes.” The word comes out clipped.
She studies me for a beat, then nods like that answer's more than I said. “Okay.”
I turn back toward the trees. “Max. Please. Just—give me a minute.”
I hear her moving and assume she’s heading back to the truck.
