Call her.
Don't call her.
Help her.
Walk away.
Be the man she thinks you are.
Be the man you actually are.
I shifted onto my side, frustrated with myself, wishing the world would make a move so I wouldn't have to. Wishing someone would force my hand so I could stop pretending this was about nobility or protecting her or any of the other bullshit excuses I'd been feeding myself all afternoon.
The truth was simpler.
Cleaner.
Harder to admit.
I wanted to see her again.
Wanted it badly enough that I was lying here in the dark arguing with myself instead of sleeping like a normal person.
And that terrified me more than anything I'd faced in years.
More than bullets. More than knives. More than men twice my size trying to kill me in underground fight clubs.
Because those things I understood.
This?
This was uncharted territory.
Pathetic.
Finally, I sat up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed, feet hitting cold hardwood.
Enough.
I grabbed my phone before I could talk myself out of it and dialed her number, each digit feeling like a point of no return.
She picked up on the first ring.
"Kane."
Not a question. Not surprise. Just my name, spoken with something that sounded like relief. Like she'd been waiting. Like she'd hoped I'd call and was glad she'd been right.
"Hey," I said, voice rougher than I intended. "How ya doing, Manhattan?"
"It hasn't been that long since we saw each other." Amusement colored her voice, warm and teasing in a way that made my chest tighten. "But I'm fine. Better now."
A pause.
The kind that felt loaded.
Then, direct as a blade to the ribs: "Have you reconsidered?"
Christ.
