“I guess I deserved that.” Her admission hangs in the air between us as guilt rains over me.
Don’t be an asshole Haynes.
She doesn’t deserve that.
“No, you don’t. I’m sorry.” I still don’t turn around, afraid that any sudden movement might scare her away. My hands remain on the lathe, fingers tracing the curves of the half-finished teacup.
“I didn’t mean to shut you out,” she says, her voice closer now.
I nod, swallowing hard against the lump in my throat. “I know.”
The workshop feels smaller with her in it, the air thicker somehow. I can smell her—that mix of vanilla and something uniquely her—and it makes my chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with my bruised ribs.
“What are you making?” she asks.
I note the deliberate change of subject. “A teacup.” I finally turn to face her, leaning back against the workbench to take the pressure off my ribs. “For your collection.”
She stands there in the doorway, swimming in my hoodie, her wet hair loose around her shoulders. She looks small and vulnerable but still so fucking pretty. The sight of her hits me harder than any tackle could. All I want to do is cross the room and pull her into my arms. But I don’t. Instead, I wait.
Something flickers across her face. Surprise, maybe, mixed with an obvious sadness. “You make teacups?” she asks softly, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of my hoodie.
“No.” I clear my throat, trying to keep my voice steady. “Not usually. It just kind of…happened and I thought…” I take a deep breath. “I thought maybe it could be the first one in your collection that isn’t broken.” I run my finger along the wood grain. “The world has a lot of brokenness already and I thought maybe this time…it needs to be reminded how strong it really is. How strong it can be.”
Her eyes fill with tears so quickly I almost miss it before she blinks them away. She steps closer, her eyes fixed on the teacup rather than on me. I can see the tension in her shoulders, the careful way she’s holding herself, like she’s afraid she might shatter if she relaxes too much.
“I knew him,” she says suddenly, her voice so quiet I almost miss it. “Micah,” she clarifies, though she doesn’t need to. “I knew him. Before.”
My heart slams against my bruised ribs. I stay perfectly still, afraid that even breathing too loudly might make her stop talking. “Okay,” I say carefully.
“You never mentioned him before. That he worked for the team.”
“I…” I shrug helplessly. “I’m sorry. I had no idea you knew anyone with the team or I would have told you in a heartbeat.”
“I didn’t know he was working for the Rush. Had I known I probably would’ve never even spoken to you.”
“Sutton.” I shake my head, confused. “I don’t understand.”
“We have…history.” Her voice catches on the word. She wraps her arms around herself, like she’s trying to hold something in.
Or keep something out.
And with one simple gesture, everything starts to click.
“Bad history?” I ask, though I already know the answer. I’ve seen enough to know that whatever happened between them wasn’t good.
She nods once, her eyes fixed on a point somewhere past my shoulder. “The worst kind.”
Her words hang in the air between us like smoke, heavy and choking. I wait, giving her the space to continue or retreat, though every cell in my body screams to move closer, to hold her, to shield her from whatever pain Micah Brannigan represents.
“You don’t have to tell me,” I say, though it kills me to say it. “Not if you’re not ready. You don’t owe me anything.”
She looks at me then, really looks at me, her dark eyes searching my face. “I do, though. I think I do.” She takes a deepbreath that shakes her whole body. “Because it’s going to keep happening.”
My jaw clenches. “What’s going to keep happening?”
“This.” She gestures vaguely between us. “Me shutting down. Running away. And you not understanding why.”
I nod slowly, careful not to move too suddenly despite the adrenaline surging through me.
