“I take care of what’s mine,” Cally says.
Two seconds.That’s all it takes for one word to turn my insides ...well, inside out.
Mine.
It’s not even possessive in the way people think.It’s worse.It’s intimate.It’s familiar.It’s a claim said like a reflex, like he forgot there are rules now—rules we pretend we follow because they keep the damage contained.
My stomach turns hard.My fingers curl around my phone until my joints protest.
I’m not his.
I’ve never been his.
Not fully.
Because I can’t choose, and he’s a man built for winning.A man who understands trophies and titles and clean outcomes.He wants the Cup, he wants the answer, he wants the world to make sense if he fights hard enough.
My heart doesn’t work that way.
I adore him—God, I do.I adore his mouth, his fire, his ridiculous confidence that makes you believe you’re safe just because he’s in the room.I adore the way he can make me laugh when I’m half dead on my feet.I adore the version of him that looks at me like I’m a home he’d burn down the world to protect.
And I love someone else too.
That’s the part that turns love into a problem.That’s the part Cally can’t swallow without choking on it.
I don’t belong to anyone.I’m not property.I’m not a prize you earn by being louder or stronger or first.
Except my heart.My heart is a traitor.
It’s always been a traitor.
It wants both of them so badly it feels like a bruise I keep pressing just to prove it’s still there.
Cally hears my inhale.He hears the fight rise in me, the way my silence turns sharp around the edges.He backtracks, but it’s not smooth—nothing about him is smooth when he’s scared.
“Eat, Ves,” he says, rougher now.“Please.You sound like you’re running on fumes.”
I stare at the cup again—lavender, bergamot, vanilla foam—too pretty to be real, too thoughtful to be casual.My throat burns with it.With him.
“I’m fine,” I lie.
He gives a low, humorless laugh.“You’re terrible at that.”
And I hate him for knowing.I hate myself more for wanting to let him take care of me anyway.
I hate how right he is.
I peel the lid off the coffee with hands that don’t feel fully under my control.The warmth hits my palms and my eyes sting, which is ridiculous.It’s a drink.It’s caffeine.It’s not a love letter.
It feels like one anyway.
“Is your dad okay?”he asks, and the edge is gone now, replaced by something rawer.Worry.Fear.The thing Cally hides behind arrogance and jokes.
“No,” I say, because lying takes too much effort.“He’s ...not okay.He fell.They want to do tests.And the county’s being awful on top of that.The camp might be in trouble.”
There’s a soft, ugly sound on the other end, like he exhaled hard through his teeth.“Jesus.”
I watch the city smear past the window, lights and signs and people moving like nothing matters except being on time.I wish I could borrow that.I wish I could believe my life is still on schedule.
