“And you already stopped,” she whispers. “Didn’t you.”
I don’t answer.
Because I can’t.
Her eyes glisten, but she doesn’t cry. She doesn’t run. She stands her ground in my space, wearing my shirt, looking at me like I’m the one who’s breakable.
“I asked you if you regretted me,” she says quietly. “And you didn’t answer the part that matters.”
My chest tightens.
“I don’t regret you,” I say, voice rougher now. “I regret that caring about you makes you a target.”
The words feel like admitting defeat.
Her breath shudders. “So what do you want me to do? Leave?” she asks, voice trembling. “Go home and pretend I can’t feel you everywhere?”
I stare at her. At the courage. At the ache.
And the fear returns, sharp, immediate, because now that I’ve let her in, the thought of her walking out feels like losing something that I desperately need.
“I don’t want you to leave,” I say, and the honesty in it is ugly with want. “That’s the problem.”
Her eyes lift to mine. “Then stop pushing me away like I’m fragile,” she whispers. “Stop deciding for me.”
“You don’t understand,” I warn, stepping closer, voice low and dangerous. “If you choose me, it won’t be safe. It won’t stay small.”
“I’m not asking for small,” she says.
“I can’t promise you peace.”
“I don’t want peace,” she answers, tears bright but unshed. “I want the truth.”
I inhale, the control in me shuddering.
“The truth,” I say, voice cracking at the edges, “is that I’m afraid.”
Her eyes widen.
I’ve never said that to anyone.
“I’m afraid,” I repeat, quieter now, rawer, “because the moment you’re mine, the world will try to take you just to prove it can. And I,” My throat tightens. “I don’t know what I’ll become if someone tries.”
The silence is thick enough to choke on.
Then Emmy takes one step forward. Just one. Closing the space.
“You don’t get to scare me out of wanting you,” she whispers. “You don’t get to make me feel disposable so you can stay in control.”
My breath comes shallow.
“This is consequences,” I say.
“I know,” she answers.
“This is exposure.”
“I know.”
