Not needy.
Not manipulative.
Just… small.
Hopeful.
And that almost broke me more than anything else she’d ever done.
Because I wanted to say yes.
God, I wanted to.
I wanted her in my bed, in my arms, in that familiar dangerous orbit where everything felt intense and meaningful and wrong in exactly the ways that used to feel like love.
But I’d learned something.
Not enough.
Just enough.
“Not tonight,” I said quietly.
Her eyes flicked up to mine, searching for rejection.
I shook my head. “Not like this.”
The words surprised both of us.
She swallowed. “You don’t want me?”
“I do,” I said, honest. “That’s the problem.”
For a heartbeat, she looked like she might cry.
Then she nodded.
Once.
Like she understood more than she wanted to.
The rain came down harder, suddenly, drenching us both.
I took her hand.
Not pulling her toward my door.
Pulling her away from it.
“Come on,” I said.
We ran.
Laughing despite ourselves, splashing through puddles, breathless and ridiculous, two soaked adults sprinting down a city block like kids escaping a storm.
We ducked under a bus stop awning just as the rain turned into a full downpour.
The world roared around us.
