"This conversation is over," I say, reaching for my jacket. The words come out colder than I intended, but maybe cold is what she needs to understand the finality of this decision.
"Like hell it is." Delilah drops the sheet and starts grabbing her clothes from the floor, not caring about her nudity, focused entirely on matching my energy. "You don't get to fuck me and then walk away like I'm some one-night stand you regret."
That's exactly what I'm doing. What I have to do, despite the way it's tearing something fundamental apart in my chest.
I watch her dress with quick, angry movements, pulling on her prom dress with none of the careful preparation from last night. The pale blue silk looks wrinkled now, disheveled, like evidence of what we did together. When she's finished, she turns to face me with her chin raised and her green eyes blazing with fury.
"If you walk out that door, we're done. Forever. No more letters, no more contact, no more pretending this meant something to you."
The ultimatum hangs in the air between us, and I can see she's hoping it will change my mind. Hoping that the threat of permanent separation will make me reconsider the mathematics of our situation.
It doesn't.
"I know," I say simply.
That's when she breaks.
The first tear rolls down her cheek before she can stop it, followed by another, then another. She's crying silently, without sound, just water streaming down her face as the reality of what's happening finally penetrates her defenses.
I've never seen her cry before. Not when she found her father's body, not during the investigation, not in any of our correspondence. She's spent seven months being stronger than anyone her age should have to be, and now I'm the thing that's finally broken her.
The sight nearly destroys my resolve. Every instinct I have screams at me to go to her, to hold her, to promise that we'll figure this out together. But I force myself to stay where I am, to let her pain exist without trying to fix it.
Because fixing it would mean staying. And staying would mean destroying both our futures.
"I hate you," she whispers, the words broken by tears she's trying not to shed. "I hate you for making me feel this way. I hate you for making me think someone finally understood me. I hate you for giving me something perfect and then taking it away."
Each word hits like a blade between my ribs, carving away pieces of myself I didn't know existed. But I don't respond, don't defend myself, don't try to explain that I hate myself more than she ever could.
"Say something," she demands, wiping her face with the back of her hand. "Say anything. Tell me you don't care, tell me last night meant nothing, tell me you never want to see me again. Just say something."
But I can't. Can't lie and claim this means nothing when it means everything. Can't tell her I don't care when she's the most important person in my life. Can't say I never want to see her again when the thought of permanent separation makes me want to put my fist through the wall.
So I say nothing. I pick up my jacket, check that I have my keys, and walk toward the door with the mechanical precision I once brought to crime scenes.
"Kent, please." Her voice breaks completely now, desperation replacing anger. "Please don't do this. We can figure it out. We can make it work somehow. I'll wait until I'm eighteen, I'll transfer to a college near you, I'll do whatever it takes—"
I stop at the door but don't turn around. Can't turn around, because seeing her face right now would shatter what's left of my resolve.
"Take care of yourself, Delilah," I say quietly. "Build the life you deserve. Find someone who can give you what I can't."
"What you can't or what you won't?"
The question hangs in the air as I open the door. I don't answer it, because the distinction doesn't matter. Can't, won't—the result is the same. She stays in that hotel room, and I walk away from the most important thing that's ever happened to me.
The hallway outside is sterile, anonymous, the kind of space designed for people in transition. I walk toward the elevator with steady steps, counting each footfall like a meditation. Behind me, I can hear her crying in earnest now, the sound muffled by the closing door but clear enough to follow me down the hall.
I don't look back. Can't look back, because seeing her alone in that room, surrounded by the evidence of what we shared, would break something in me that I need to keep intact.
The elevator arrives with a soft ding, and I step inside without hesitation. As the doors close, cutting off the sound of her tears, I allow myself one moment of complete honesty:
I'm not protecting her from me. I'm protecting both of us from what we could become together. From the kind of partnership that would make us unstoppable and completely fucking dangerous. From the possibility that she's exactly asdark as I am, and together we'd stop pretending that what I do serves justice rather than our own need for control.
I'm walking away from the only person who's ever understood me completely.
And I'm convinced it's the right choice.
The elevator opens on the lobby, and I step out into the bright morning light streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows. Normal people going about normal lives, checking out of their normal hotel stays after normal nights with normal problems.
