“Lex,” he says, like this is normal. Like showing up at a mountain cabin hundreds of miles away is a perfectly reasonable thing to do.
I grip the door harder. “What are you doing here?”
He glances past me into the cabin like he belongs near any part of my life. “Can I come in?”
“No.”
His face tightens. “Lexie, come on.”
“No,” I repeat, sharper this time. “What are you doing here?”
He exhales like I am being difficult. “I saw your post on social media.”
Of course he did.
The stupid picture I put on my story this morning. Just the mountains and my tea and a caption about snowed-in inspiration. Apparently enough for Darren to start asking questions or stalking around until he found me.
“I made a mistake,” he says. “I know that.”
I almost laugh.
Almost.
“A mistake?”
“Yeah.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I was stressed. You were stressed. Things got ugly.”
Things got ugly.
Like he did not tell me I should be grateful he wanted me at all.
Like he did not drain my savings and then dump me the second I stopped being useful.
“You don’t get to rewrite this,” I say quietly.
His jaw shifts. “I’m not rewriting it. I’m trying to fix it.”
“No,” I say. “You’re trying to fix what’s convenient for you.”
His expression changes for half a second, and that is all I need.
Because there it is.
Not regret.
Calculation.
Before I can call him on it, my phone rings on the table behind me.
Darren’s eyes flick toward the sound.
Mine do too.
Unknown number.
Normally I would let it go to voicemail.
Something in my gut says not to.
