And that's inevitable. It's what I always do.
But I’ve bared the worst of my shame and she’s still here. Her hand in mine.
"I'm scared," I blurt.
After an eternity, she asks, "Of what?"
"Of this. Of you. Of fucking it up." I look at her, have to focus to keep her face clear. "Like I fuck everything up. I always... it's what I do. Fuck things up."
It's the most honest thing I've said in three years. Hell, probably ever.
And instead of using it against me, instead of running like any sane person would, the cushion shifts as Ivy moves closer. She leans her head on my shoulder. The rest of the fight drains out of me.
"I won't let them take what Sebastian built," My words are thick, slurred slightly at the edges. "Whatever it takes. Even if he hates me for it."
"He doesn't hate you. He's scared. There's a difference."
I set down my empty glass. "He wasn't wrong about the optics. About what this looks like. About what it could do to you."
"This is between you and me, no one else.”
"Still, I shouldn’t have pushed. I should have kept my dist—"
"No. You don't get to take away my agency here. I knew what I was doing. What we were doing."
The thing is, I want to believe her. I want to be the man she sees when she looks at me.
But wanting it doesn't make it true.
"I'm not good at this.” I stop. Forming coherent thoughts is like nailing bourbon to a wall—impossible when everything's this liquid. "At letting people in. At trusting anyone to see the real me, my life, and not run."
"I'm not running." She shifts closer, and I lift my arm in invitation. She tucks herself against my side. I wrap my arm around her waist, pulling her in.
She should run. She should get as far away from me as possible. But I don't say it. Instead, I just hold her against me, her head on my shoulder, my arm around her waist. She fits here, against me. Like she belongs.
The thought terrifies me. Because I've spent my life keeping everyone at a careful distance. But there's no distance with her. No strategy. Just this overwhelming need to keep her close while knowing we’ll never work.
"What are you thinking?" she murmurs against my shoulder.
The question is so simple, so gentle, it nearly undoes me. “About us,” I admit.
The bourbon makes my thoughts slow, heavy, thick. But even through the haze, one truth cuts clear: I don't want her to leave. And I don't know which scares me more—losing her or keeping her.
"Thank you," I murmur against her hair. "For staying."
The words feel inadequate for what I'm trying to say.
"I'm not going anywhere," she whispers, her fingers tracing absent patterns on my chest, against the cotton of my T-shirt.
The words settle something in me I didn't know was restless. "Promise?"
"I—"
Her phone rings, a sharp, businesslike tone that's different from her usual ringtone. She stiffens in my arms.
"That's Bill," she says, already twisting to look over her shoulder at the screen on the pool table's ledge. "My boss. He never calls this late. Why would he be calling at this hour?"
Shit. I agree, nothing good comes from calls this late.
