Tonight it feels like I’m drowning.
My jaw tightens as I drag both hands down my face.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
The question loops endlessly through my head.
Because the second I saw those bruises, rage took over so fast it scared me.
Not anger. Rage.
The kind that blackens vision and sharpens instincts and whispers violence into your bloodstream.
The same kind my father carried.
Nausea twists violently in my stomach.
I shove upright and pace the loft, restless and agitated.
I want to crawl out of my own skin.
The worst part? Some dark, broken piece of me still wishes I had hit that guy.
The thought burns like acid in my chest.
Jesus Christ.
I stop near the loft railing overlooking the lower level of the cabin.
Everything downstairs is dark now except for the faint kitchen light Peyton left on.
The sight of it hurts unexpectedly.
She always leaves a light on now.
She’s turned this place into something alive without even realizing it.
And all I can think is that I’m going to ruin it.
The thought follows me everywhere now.
You’ll ruin her, too.
My chest tightens hard enough to ache.
Before I can stop myself, I head downstairs quietly. The cabin floor creaks beneath my bare feet as I move toward the hallway. Toward her room.
I tell myself I’m only checking to make sure she isn’t having another nightmare.
That’s all this is.
Nothing more.
But deep down?
I know that’s bullshit.
Because the truth is—I just need to see her.
