And I hate that. I hate that he gives me the space Idemand instead of chasing me. I hate that he's right. That he saw through me. That even now, when all I want is to retreat, I want him to follow.
I make it two steps before his voice reaches me again.
“I meant it,” he says. “I need you. Not just for this project. Not because you're brilliant, or sharp, or infuriating in the best way. But because I see you. And I like what I see.”
I stop. I don't turn around.
I can't.
But I don't walk away either.
Because for the first time in a long time, someone said they needed me. Not for what I could give them. Not for money, or solutions, or survival. Just… me.
And it terrifies me.
But the moment of weakness passes quickly. I've heard pretty words before. I've seen what happens when you believe them.
My phone buzzes again in my pocket, an intrusion that breaks the spell. I pull it out, glancing at the notification—another text from my mother. Another demand. Another reminder of what happens when you let someone become necessary.
And just like that, the walls I've spent years fortifying slide right back into place.
What am I doing? Troy Hawkins doesn'tneedme. Troy Hawkins has options—like Brianna. Guys like him always do. They cast wide nets and see what they catch.
Meanwhile, I'm standing here like an idiot, actually considering the possibility that this could be something real. That I could be something more than a challenge, a conquest, a temporary diversion until something better comes along.
People don't stay. That's the one consistent truth I've learned. They promise, they swear, they look at you like you're everything and then they leave. Or worse, they stayphysically but disappear emotionally, becoming ghosts in your life that you still somehow have to care for.
I'm better off alone. I always have been. At least alone, I know exactly what to expect. At least alone, I control the damage.
“I have to go,” I finally say, the words tight and clipped. I still don't turn around. “I can't do this right now.”
I hear him shift in his chair. “Delilah?—”
“Just... don't.” I swallow hard. “I'll send you the budget updates later.”
And then I'm walking away, fast and determined, not stopping even when I hear him call my name once more. Not looking back, not slowing down until I'm well out of the building, into the cold autumn air that stings my eyes—or maybe it’s something else making them burn.
36
TROY
Delilah arrives four minutes late to our next meeting, coffee in hand, face unreadable. Not that I was watching the clock or anything.
We haven’t spoken since our last blow up, a few emails exchanged here and there. I’m not going to chase her, I need her to come to me. To prove that she wants me too.
She slides into the seat across from me without a smile, drops her bag on the floor and pulls out her laptop like we’re here for a board meeting.
“Hey,” I say, casually. “Brought you something.”
I push a container across the table—egg mayo sandwich, cut in triangles like she likes, because I’m a total simp now.
She stares at it. “You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to.”
“Thanks,” she says, robotically.
No joke. No “wow, do you cook for all your project partners?” Nothing.
