The ground beneath my feet, unsteady as quicksand.
The fabric of my dress caressing my legs.
Three I can hear.
A laugh from a nearby table.
The clink of a glass.
And—his voice. Quiet. Broken.
“Emma.” His tone was low from behind me. “Please… let me explain.”
Absolutely not,the voices snapped.
“Fuck you,” I hissed.
His face fell.
A tiny ping of satisfaction curled up my spine, but it didn’t move me. Not forward. Not back. My hand stayed locked to the handle—metal warming.
Why am I not moving?
Because you’re pathetic,it snarled.
Desperate.
Broken.
Pain ground against anger, anger ground against grief. My vision returned to the handle in my grip, the last barrier between me and freedom. I could open the door. I could walk out. I could be done with him forever.
But—
“Give me one good reason,” I snarled, the words iced over, honed enough to cut.
He didn’t answer. Each second dragged, settling into a small, insistent ache. Then, finally: “I can’t give you a reason to stay that isn’t selfish.”
I turned then—slowly, as if forcing myself through water.
He stood there stripped of every mask, shoulders lowered, palms up at his sides, chest rising and falling in shallow bursts.
“Everything I want to say,” he continued, tone raw, “is about what I want. What I hoped for. And none of that is fair to you.” He dragged a shaking hand through his hair, jaw working. “I lied. I manipulated the circumstances.” His breath hitched, shallow and uneven, a man bracing for impact. “You’re right for wanting to leave.”
When I tried to speak, nothing came out, my throat closing around the words.
“But I don’t want you standing out in the dark alone,” he continued, voice low. “So you stay, I’ll go.”
He reached toward his pocket, then stopped. “I’ve left my card with the waiter,” he said quietly, hand settling on his phone. “Order anything you’d like. The ravioli you talked about earlier, drinks, dessert. Anything.” His fingers tightened around the phone as he stepped closer to the door. His scent reaching me as he passed—leather warmed by skin, edged with citrus.
My knees wavered. I tried to hold on to the anger—to the fire that had carried me here—but it failed me. Crushed under the weight of something I wasn’t ready to look at.
The care tucked inside his offer.
The way he couldn’t stand the thought of me walking out into the dark alone—something Read would’ve worried about without hesitation.
“You’re not fighting me,” I said, voice splintering. “You’re not even trying to convince me to stay.”
“No.” His eyes found mine and held. “I’m not.”
