I used to know how to pull her out of it.
Now, I watch her drown.
She presses herself against the wall, bracing for impact. Her hoodie is smeared with dirt, blood, and whatever unholy stench is coming from the city dumpster. There’s a dog zipped inside it, trembling, and obviously the reason she just committed a felony.
Unbelievable.
Tessa Whitmore, honor student, ethics clinic darling, rule-following martyr with a savior complex and exactly zero self-preservation skills… breaking and entering for a rescue mutt.
I should’ve known it’d be something like this. I’ve been watching her long enough to guess.
A couple of days ago, I saw her speed-walking across campus. My first instinct was to ignore her. To keep walking.
But then I saw the shake in her hands.
The one she tries to hide when she’s overwhelmed. The one I know better than I want to.
So, I followed her.
Not because I cared. That part of me is long dead.
But because I know what it means when Tessa Whitmore starts unraveling in silence.
She doesn’t lash out. She doesn’t blow up her life all at once. She slices at it, piece by piece, rationalizing every cut as a noble sacrifice until there’s nothing left but skin and regret.
I learned that the hard way.
Tessa prepares for war carefully, but she forgets that some people play dirtier.
People like me.
I don’t do forgiveness, I do leverage.
And right now, standing in this alley with a busted shelter window, a stolen dog, and Tessa Whitmore bleeding down her arm?
I’ve got more leverage than I’ve ever had.
She still hasn’t spoken.
Not even a snarky comeback—and for Tessa, that’s saying something.
She just stares at me.
Big blue eyes, glassy in the alley light, flick between my face and my phone. She’s calculating how much damage I’m capable of, and if she’s already too late to stop it.
She is.
Her hand curls tighter around the dog, fingers white-knuckled. She doesn’t even flinch when the glass in the busted window behind her creaks in the breeze. Just stands there, waiting for me to deliver the sentence.
She looks exactly like she did the day she left.
Terrified.
But also like she’s trying not to be.
I hate that some part of me still responds to it.
I swallow it down.
