“Isa.”
That gets me.
Not Texas.
Not sweetheart.
And he says it like he means to use it carefully.
I hate that.
I fold my arms tighter.
“Say what you need to say so I can hate you on schedule.”
He glances down the hallway once, then back at me.
“Vale’s not clean where you’re concerned.”
I go still.
Only for a second, then recover immediately.
“Congratulations,” I say coolly. “You’ve now repeated yourself with more syllables.”
He steps closer.
Not enough to crowd.
Enough to make me aware of how much space he takes up without trying.
“I saw him with her.”
I already know who he means. That’s the worst part. I don’t have to ask. I lift my chin anyway.
“And?”
“And it wasn’t over.”
My jaw tightens.
There’s a kind of humiliation that comes not from being lied to, but from hearing your private fear spoken aloud by someone you can’t even stand.
Drew watches my face like he knows that’s exactly where he’s landed.
And because apparently this morning was not difficult enough already, he softens.
Actually softens.
“Look,” he says, voice lower now. “You don’t have to like me. You clearly don’t. But I’m telling you because I’d rather have you pissed at me than blindsided by him later.”
That should not be the sentence that hurts.
But it does.
Maybe because it isn’t sleazy.
It isn’t competitive.
