I flinched. Shame spiked so fast I almost stepped back.
He was right. That was the worst part. He was right, and the truth crawled over my skin, that I was standing in my own living room lashing out at the one person who had done nothing but show up for me.
Clara shook her head, a quick, sharp movement, then looked back at her brother. “I can take care of myself,” she said, steady. “If he has something to say to me, I can take it.”
Her focus whipped back to me, eyes flaring as her chin lifted in defiance. “So say it. Stop snapping at everyone and tell me what’s actually going on.”
The room closed in. Walls, windows, the weight of their attention. Fight-or-flight roared in my veins, that familiar rush of panic.
I need out. I need air.
There was a third option. The one I knew best.
Burn it down before anyone else can.
Hayes’s gaze flicked between us, reading the pressure build. He blew out a breath and stood, hands up in a loose I’m-not-fighting-you gesture.
“You two should talk,” he said. “I’m not refereeing this.”
On his way past me, he jabbed a finger lightly at my chest. “But not like that again. I mean it.”
I nodded once, which was pathetic considering the words that had already left my mouth. It was the best I had.
The door shut behind him with a soft click that sounded louder than the knock had.
The house felt huge and too small at the same time.
Silence stretched. Clara watched me from across the room, arms still wrapped around herself like she was the only thing holding her together.
“So,” she said finally, voice low and shaking just enough to give her away. “You fell. You scared everyone. And now your solution is to treat me likeI’mthe problem?”
I stared at the floor for a beat, then lifted my head. There wasn’t anywhere else to look that didn’t have her in it.
“I went up to the second floor,” I said, words coming out flat. “My leg slipped. I went down and couldn’t get my footing to get back up without help.”
Venom clung to every syllable, all of it aimed directly at myself.
Her expression softened immediately, like someone had opened a window. She took a step closer, anger bleeding into something worse.
“I’m sorry that happened,” she said. “That sounds terrifying. Why didn’t you call me?”
The question went straight through whatever flimsy armor I had left.
Because then it would have been real in your eyes too. Because I can live with them seeing me as pathetic, but I cannot live with you thinking it.
“Because this”—I gestured between us, hand slicing the air—“is exactly why today happened.”
She reeled like I’d shoved her. “What are you talking about?”
“I got cocky,” I ground out. “I started believing I was ... fixed. Normal. Like I could just stroll into a site and be the guy I used to be.” I laughed once, humorless and sharp. “Joke’s on me, I guess.”
Her chin lifted. “No. That’s on wet stairs and gravity. That’s it.”
“You already built one life around taking care of someone else’s shit,” I said, the words tearing their way out. “You stood up there in a dress and realized you’d signed up to be the emotional support wife, not a partner.”
Color drained from her face. “That’s not what this is.”
“Isn’t it?” The snarl scraped my throat raw. “I can’t even walk up a set of stairs without needing three guys and a fucking incident report. Today proved exactly what I’ve been trying not to say out loud: I am not a safe bet, Clara. Not for you. Not for anyone.”
