His mouth tightened.
I should not have asked.
I knew that.
But some bitter part of me wanted to see if he would bleed openly or keep pretending he had no wound where I was concerned.
“No,” I said. “I’m not going.”
His breath left him slowly.
Relief.
There it was.
Clear as sunrise.
I hated him for showing it.
I hated myself for noticing.
“You look relieved,” I said.
“I’m in pain.”
“Convenient.”
His eyes lifted to mine.
“I am relieved.”
The honesty hit me so sharply I had to look away.
“Don’t,” I whispered.
“I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
He said nothing.
I looked back at him.
His face was pale. Exhausted. Angry in a way that seemed mostly aimed at himself. He had survived a bullet, surgery, and flatlining, but apparently jealousy was what brought color back to his cheeks.
“You’re engaged,” I said.
The words hung in the room like a blade.
His gaze flicked toward the empty chair.
Georgia’s sweater.
Georgia’s coffee.
Georgia’s promise.
“I know.”
