“That’s fucking ridiculous.”
“That’s my answer.”
We’re at a standstill.Again.This girl fights me on everything, and part of me—the fucked up part that should know better, finds it fascinating.
Most people don’t tell me no.
She does it like breathing.
“Fine,” I say.
I push off the counter and move toward her.
She stiffens immediately, stepping back on instinct, shoulders squaring like she’s bracing for impact. Like she expects me to grab her. Like she’s already decided how far she’ll let it go.
I don’t touch her.
I pass her instead.
The door handle is cold under my palm as I twist it open. Rain rushes in, sharp and loud, the night spilling into my apartment.
“You can leave,” I say. “I’m not dragging you into my bed.”
I watch her freeze.
Her throat works. I see it. She swallows hard, jaw tightening like she’s holding something back.
Sheshouldleave.
She knows it too. I can see the calculation flicker behind her eyes—the exit, the night, the cost of walking out. Pride wars with something heavier. Something uglier.
Then she speaks. “Close the door.”
I turn my head slowly, look at her properly. She’s standing rigid, arms wrapped around herself, chin lifted like she’s daring me to say no.
“What?” I ask.
“Isaidclose the door.”
I don’t move. I study her. The way her fingers dig into her sleeves. The way she’s braced, like she expects this to hurt no matter what she chooses.
“You staying?” I ask, voice flat.
Her lips press together. “Do I have a choice?”
Something shifts in my chest. Sharp. Annoying. Gone as soon as I notice it.
“There’s always a choice, Beda.”
Her voice drops. Flat. Certain. “Not for me there isn’t.”
I hold her gaze another second, then another. Long enough that she doesn’t look away. Long enough that I know this isn’t surrender.
It’s strategy.
I push the door closed. The lock clicks into place, final and loud in the quiet. The apartment feels smaller instantly. Warmer. Like the walls leaned in.
She folds her arms tighter around herself.
