Space.
If that's what you want.
I let her walk.
Because she decided.
Because I won't cage someone who obviously doesn't want to be there.
Because chasing someone who already decided feels worse than letting them go.
I flex my hand again, letting the pain centre me.
The bruise is already blooming beneath the skin. Dark. Ugly.
It'll swell by morning.
Maybe she'll see it. Ask me about it.
That thought lands harder than my fist against Dain's jaw.
Not because I want her to know I hit him.
But because she probably won't ask. .
Because she'll assume it was nothing. A hockey injury. She won't know I fought him, for her.
That I've been wanting to smash his head in since I found out how he treated her. The she chose him-
I shut the tap off.
Water drips from my knuckles into the sink.
I grab paper towel, press it against the split skin. It stains faint pink before I toss it in the bin.
I look at myself again.
I could've said something.
Anything.
Stay.
Don't.
This isn't what I want.
I didn't.
Pride is a stupid fucking thing.
I roll my shoulders once, twice.
Loosen my neck.
By the time I push the door open, I look steady.
The noise of the bar hits me again - bass, laughter, glass clinking.
