He turned to face me finally, and I wished he hadn’t. Because his eyes were glassy with unshed tears, and his expression was one of quiet devastation. Like this was hurting him just as much.
“I can’t do this,” he said. “Not while people are getting hurt. Not while you’re getting hurt because of me.”
My stomach turned to stone.
“You think I regret protecting you?” I asked. “James, I’d do it again. I will do it again.”
“That’s exactly what scares me,” James whispered.
I stepped closer, lowering my voice. “We promised each other we’d do this together. No more running, no more going it alone. Remember?”
“I remember,” he said quietly, eyes darting away. “But I might break that promise.”
The words hit like a punch to the ribs, soft but deadly. I swallowed hard, trying to keep my bear from rising with a growl of protest.
“Don’t,” I said. “Don’t say that.”
James looked at me then, guilt and fear swirling in his gaze. “I’m not trying to hurt you, Rafael. But if keeping you safe means walking away, maybe that’s what I have to do.”
All I could do was stare at him, that awful, heavy silence sitting like a weight on my chest.
He took a few steps forward and sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, hands clasped between his knees.
“I’ve spent the last three days watching you bleed. Watching you sleep with pain written all over your face. And I can’t—” He broke off, dragged in a shaky breath. “I can’t be the reason for that.”
“You’re not,” I said fiercely, leaning forward despite the pull in my side. “Avery is. Those bastards he sent are. This is not your fault.”
His jaw clenched, his hands tightening. “It feels like my fault. If I hadn’t—if my brother hadn’t—none of this would’ve happened.”
I hated how deep that guilt ran in him. Like some old scar that wouldn’t stop aching. He carried it in every glance, every stiff movement, every time he flinched away from being comforted.
“James,” I said, softer now. “Look at me.”
He did.
“I don’t care what mess you think you’re in. I’m not walking away. I chose this. I chose you,” I told him.
His mouth twisted, like he wanted to believe me but didn’t know how.
“I love you,” I said, quiet and honest. “I’ve loved you since the first time you muttered something under your breath and blushed when I caught you.”
His breath hitched.
“I know it’s messy. I know it’s dangerous. But don’t you dare try to protect me by cutting me out.”
He stood abruptly, walking back to the window. His fists pressed to the sill, shoulders tight with tension.
“I’m scared,” he whispered.
The words hung between us like a wound left open.
“I know,” I said. “Me too.”
“I keep seeing you on the ground,” he admitted. “Your blood on my hands. I can’t sleep. I can’t breathe without that image hitting me like a wave.”
He turned again, and this time there were tears on his cheeks. No pretending now.
“I’m not strong like you, Rafael.”
