“And you’re trying to what?”she shoots back.“Lose?”
That hits.
Not because it’s clever, but because it’s accurate.
Vesper shifts, blanket sliding down her shoulder.She braces her hands on her knees like she’s steadying herself before she says something that costs.
“This is hard,” she says, voice quieter now.“Trying to stick around because I feel like if I don’t, you two are going to kill each other before the playoffs.”
My jaw clenches.
She keeps going, eyes shining with frustration and fear she’s trying to disguise as annoyance.“Also, it makes me want to run away—again—because I don’t want to watch you two rip each other apart.Emotionally.Physically.All of it.”
And my first instinct—the ugliest one—is to say:Then don’t run.Stay.Choose.
Like we did before.
Like we destroyed her with.
I bite it back so hard it tastes like blood.
I move toward the kitchen, because if I sit too close, I’ll do something reckless.Like touch her.Like pull her into me.Like beg her not to leave, to kiss me, to love me.
“We’re trying,” I say, because it’s the only thing I can offer without lying.
Vesper’s eyes track me.“Are you?”
I stop with my hands on the counter, my back half-turned like a coward.The room feels too quiet.Even the fridge hum feels loud.
“It’s hard,” I say, and this time I don’t try to make it sound like I’m in control.“Okay?”
She’s silent for a beat.Then, softer—like she hates how much this matters: “Why is it hard?”
Because I don’t know how to say,Because I want him.
Because I don’t know how to say,Because I want you so much it makes me want to break things just to feel something I can control.
Because I don’t know how to say,Because the word “family” sounds like a trap and a dream at the same time.
So I give her a smaller truth.One she can hold without dropping it.
“Because we never talked about it,” I say, turning back to face her.“You, him ...me.”
She stills.
I keep going, because now that I’ve started, it’s spilling out anyway, scraping at my ribs on the way.
“We were ...fine,” I say, and my throat works around the memory.“The three of us.Close.Almost one thing.”I swallow.“And then that night happened, and none of us knew what to do with it.So we did the worst possible thing.”
Her mouth parts, but she doesn’t interrupt.
“We acted like it didn’t matter,” I say.“And then we acted like it mattered so muchyouhad to pick between us.”
Her eyes glisten, and she blinks hard like she’s trying to keep control of her face.
“I’ll never pick,” she whispers.“I love the two of you so much.Haven’t stopped, but I will never make a choice.”
“I know,” I say, and it comes out rough.“And we still forced you into it.”
