I look at him. “What do you mean?”
He studies the cigarette for a second, then holds it out to me.
“Want one?”
I hesitate.
Then take it.
The smoke scratches my throat, but it steadies my hands.
“Means,” he says, watching the water, “she keeps him off balance on purpose. Jealous. Defensive. Always chasing her. Makes him feel like he’s about to lose her so he never stops wanting her.”
I swallow.
“That’s not love.”
“Nope.”
“Then why does he stay?”
Tony glances at me sideways.
“You saw them, right?”
My face heats.
“Yeah,” he says. “That.”
I don’t argue.
Because he’s not wrong.
I saw it.
The heat. The gravity. The can’t-look-away intensity.
It wasn’t healthy.
It wasn’t stable.
But it was magnetic.
And that scares me more than anything.
I stare out at the dark harbor, cigarette glowing between my fingers, and hate the tiny, traitorous part of me that whispers?—
God, I wish someone wanted me like that.
Even if it burned.
Even if it wrecked me.
Even if it wasn’t real.
And that might be the most dangerous thought of all.
By the time we finish the cigarettes, the night air feels cooler.
