I stood there with my hands on the plastic edge.
This wasn’t right.
What I’d said earlier—the way I’d pulled back and constructed the wall so fast she never saw it coming—she’d taken it wrong. I knew she had. I’d seen it happen in real time, witnessed her build over the hurt with practiced speed and carry it back downstairs like it didn’t exist, and I’d let her because letting her had been easier than saying the truth.
The truth being that it did mean something.
That’s what had sent me to that rooftop in the first place—not to apologize, not really, but to convince myself that it could mean nothing. That I could stand in front of her and reduce what had happened between us to circumstance and proximity.
Instead, I handed her a confirmation of every lie she believed about herself.
I set the bin down.
“I’ll be right back,” I said, already moving.
I took the stairs two at a time.
The door to her room stood partially open. I pushed it the rest of the way and stopped in the frame.
Libby knelt beside a small bag on the floor, packing with quick, precise movements.
She didn’t look up.
“Hey,” I said.
She stilled for half a second. She kept packing.
“Hey.” Short. Careful.
Yeah. She’d taken it wrong.
I stepped into the room and pulled the door shut behind me.
“Look at me,” I said.
Nothing.
“Libby.”
She turned, still kneeling, and lifted her eyes to mine, and there it was—hurt, worn smooth by years of being turned over and put away until it no longer had edges anyone could grab.
“I need to clear something up,” I said, keeping my voice low.
Her expression changed—her guard coming up with the speed of long practice.
“You don’t have to,” she said quickly. “I understand, honestly, Finn. I do, and it’s fine—really.”
“No,” my voice sharp. “You don’t.”
She stopped what she was doing.
I moved further into the room.
“What I said on the roof—the distance, the apology—it really did have nothing to do with you.”
Her brows drew together slightly, and I could see her turning it over.
“It sounded like it did,” she said quietly.
