Just that.
No pressure. No argument.
Which somehow makes it worse.
“I’m not saying I don’t want—” I start, then stop. Shit. “I’m not saying I don’t care. I do. I just… I’ve built my whole thing on not needing anyone. And if I start rewriting that now—if I start wanting more—what does that make me?”
His eyes meet mine again. Steady. Devastating.
“Human,” he says.
I look away, suddenly fascinated with the scuffed toe of my cleats “Boring.”
That earns me a faint smile. But it doesn’t fix the quiet that follows.
I hate quiet. Especially when it feels this loud. It makes me feel like I’m going to crawl out of my own skin.
“I should go,” I say, hopping down from the desk like the floor might save me. “Ty and Will are probably wondering where I disappeared to. And if I don’t show up to the dining hall soon, someone’s gonna assume I died. Or got kidnapped. Or ran off with a sugar daddy.”
“A sugar daddy,” he huffs, a sad smile pulling at his lips. “Is that what you want?”
It’s a joke. I know it is. But something about the way he says it—soft, tired, like he’s already bracing for me to say yes—cuts deeper than it should.
I freeze.
Just for a second.
Long enough to realize he’s not teasing and for my ribs to tighten around my heart. Too tight.
“I was kidding,” he says, trying to take it back. “Luke?—”
But I’m already moving.
“I’m gonna go,” I repeat, too fast this time, not even bothering with a joke. My heart’s in my throat. My pulse a roar in my ears. He shifts like he might follow, and I throw a hand up without turning around. “Don’t.”
Silence. That awful, echoing silence.
I make it to the door in three strides, grip slipping on the handle before I wrench it open as though it might be locked forever if I don’t leaveright now.
I don't look back.
If I do, I might stay. And that’s what scares me most. Because staying would meantrying. Staying would meantrusting.
And if he’s already asking what I want… what happens when he finds out I don’t even know?
I’ve been a fuck-up so long for my parents, I’m not even sure I know hownotto be one anymore.
The hallway blurs as I walk. My legs move on muscle memory alone, carrying me away from his office, away from the one place I felt too seen. Too wanted. Too close to something that could actually matter.
My chest aches—not the sharp kind, but the heavy kind that sinks in and settles as though it plans to stay.
I know what I just did. I didn’t just leave. Iran.
Again.
Because when things start to feel real—when someone looks at me like I’m not a phase, not a problem, not something that needs fixing—I panic. I make myself small. I disappear before they can decide I’m too much.
Before they can realize my parents were right.
