He watches me, his expression unreadable in a way that tells me he’s already questioning, already tracking the shift.
“You’re leaving,” he says.
Not a question.
A statement.
I adjust my clothing, my posture resetting automatically, composure sliding back into place like it never left.
“I have things to handle,” I reply.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.”
He steps forward slightly.
“Then say it,” he says.
I meet his gaze.
And for a second?—
I almost do.
Instead, I shake my head once.
“Not tonight.”
His jaw tightens.
“You don’t get to choose that.”
“I just did.”
Silence stretches between us, thick and unresolved.
“Stacy—”
“Don’t,” I say quietly.
He stops.
Not because he wants to.
Because something in my voice makes him.
I step back.
One step.
Then another.
Each one measured.
Each one final.
“I’ll see you soon,” I say.
