“Maybe not. But it’s how I feel.”
He is quiet for a long moment. When he speaks again, his voice is lower. “Garrett made this wound.”
I turn so fast the room blurs. “Do not say his name.”
Kauss’s eyes hold mine, dark and wounded. “He made this wound, and I walked into it.”
“No. You don’t get to make this about him so you can dodge your part.”
“I am not dodging.”
“You are! You hide behind danger, behind honor, behind fear, behind all these big tragic reasons why you can’t just say what you want like a normal person.”
“I am not normal.”
“I know that.” My voice cracks. “I love that.”
The words tear out of me before I can stop them.
Everything stops.
Rain. Sauce. Breath. Time.
Kauss goes absolutely still.
I slap a hand over my mouth as if I can shove the word back in, but it is too late. Love sits between us now, naked and terrified and mine.
His expression changes so completely that for one second I forget to be angry. He looks shattered. Not repulsed. Not trapped. Shattered by wanting to answer and being unable to believe he is allowed.
That hurts worse.
I lower my hand slowly. “Forget I said that.”
“No.”
“Kauss.”
“No.”
“Please don’t make this worse.”
“I cannot forget.”
“Fine. Then remember it somewhere else.”
His eyes close.
When he opens them, something in him has folded inward.
“As you wish,” he says.
God, I hate how formal he sounds when he is hurt.
I hate that I caused that.
I hate that I still want him to reach for me.
He moves toward the hook by the door where his coat hangs beside mine. His coat. In my apartment. On my hook. A little domestic detail now weaponized by the fact that he is taking it down. He pulls it on slowly, each motion controlled, like if he moves too fast he might break more than the night.
