“I’m not good at just standing there when someone I—”
I stop. Swallow. Clamp my mouth shut. She does not need to know I care about her. What will that do anyway?
But She waits. God, she waits. Turns fully toward me, eyes searching my face like she already knows what I didn’t finish saying.
“You kissed me like you meant it,” she says quietly. “And then you left me.”
Rain comes down harder now, pounding the roof, filling the cab with noise so I don’t have to hear my own heartbeat.
“If I stayed,” I say, voice barely above the engine, “I wouldn’t have stopped, Layla.”
She stills.
“And I would’ve done some things we can’t just”
Her breath catches. I see it. Feel it.
“Do you know how humiliating that felt?” she asks, tears finally slipping free. “Do you?”
That hurts worse than the punch I threw.
She turns back to the window, wiping her cheek fast like she’s mad at herself for crying.
“I don’t need forever, Cole,” she says, softer, but not gentler. Like she’s daring him to misunderstand her. “I’m not asking for promises or plans.”
She tilts her head, eyes sharp, mouth almost smiling.
“We could’ve just enjoyed each other while I’m here. No expectations. No pretending this has to be more than it is.”
I let out a humorless scoff.
“I don’t do halfway anymore.”
Silence stretches between us, thick and electric. She studies me like she’s finally seeing the crack in the armor.
“You watched me all day,” she says, bitterness sharp as broken glass. “All fucking day.”
“I watched because I couldn’t stop,” I snap, finally turning to face her. “And I hated myself for it.”
Gravel screams under the tires as I pull up to the guest house. The rain’s coming down hard now, sheets of it, relentless—like the sky’s got its own temper. I throw the truck into park but leave the engine running, like I’m not ready to commit to staying.
I look at her. Really look. Mascara smudged, hair a mess, eyes wrecked from holding too much in—and still the most dangerous thing I’ve wanted in a long damn time.
“I don’t trust myself around you,” I say, low and honest and pissed about it.
She reaches for the door, fingers shaking just enough to notice.
“Then stop pretending,” she says without looking at me, voice steady where it shouldn’t be, “like you don’t want me just as bad.”
She jumps out, slams the door, and runs toward the guest house, boots splashing through puddles.
I lean my head back against the seat, staring up at the ceiling of my cab, chest tight, breath uneven.
I sit there for a second longer than I should, rain hammering the windshield, my hands still locked around the steering wheel like it’s the only thing keeping me upright.
Christ.
My chest feels too tight. My throat burns. Every time I blink, all I see is her face when she slammed that door. The way her voice cracked. The way she looked at me like I’d already broken something I hadn’t even earned yet.
