Page 36 of Catcher

Too real.

I forget how to fucking breathe.

“Catcher…” My name leaves her softly, as if she didn’t expect to say it out loud.

My hand is still at her waist, and I become very aware of it, of her, of everything. I steady her, easing her back until her feet are solid beneath her. My grip lingers half a second too long before I let go.

She swallows, glancing down as she realizes her groceries are scattered across the ground. “Dammit,” she whispers, bending to grab them.

“I got it.” The words come out rough.

I crouch, scooping up apples, the eggs, thankfully intact, and the bread. My hands move quickly and sure while my head stays fixed on her, the weight of her gaze and all that unfinished air between us.

I shove everything back into the torn bags as best I can, then stand, arms full. “Where you parked?” I ask, keeping my tone even and controlled.

Ruby stares like she didn’t hear me. Her eyes search mine for something, an answer, an apology, a crack in my armor. Something I’m not about to give.

“Babe,” I say, sharper this time. “Car.”

She blinks, snapping out of it. “Right, uh… over there.” She gestures across the lot, a little flustered.

I nod once. “Lead the way.”

She heads for her car, and I follow, keeping a half step back. Each step feels heavier than it should. The sun beats down, heat rising off the pavement, and the smell of asphalt and exhaust is thick in the air. People move around us, cars pulling in and out, but it all feels distant.

Muted, because all I can feel is her.

She clicks the fob, and the trunk pops. I load the bags, then shut it with a firm push, the sound echoing in the space between us.

Ruby doesn’t move right away. Neither do I. The air between us feels thick and charged, like a storm deciding whether to break.

“Thank you,” she says, her voice careful, as if she’s not sure what version of me she’s about to get.

That should be it.

That’s where this needs to end.

But my feet don’t move. I stand there, looking at her. My first mistake. Because she’s looking at me, too, like she’s trying to read something I’ve spent years making sure nobody can.

Her eyes don’t waver or drop.

There’s something in them, something steady, something that doesn’t scare easily, and it hits me right in the chest like a fist. The energy is too damn strong for something that shouldn’t exist between us.

My jaw tightens, and my weight shifts, ready to close the distance between us. Words climb up my throat—the wrong ones, the dangerous ones, the kind that change everything if I let them out. I drag a breath in through my nose, slow and controlled, hauling my head back where it needs to be.

Her lips part as though she’s about to say something. Whatever it is—soft, honest, real—it’s exactly the kind of thing I don’t deserve to hear.

So, I shut it down hard.

“Stop lookin’ at me like that,” I say, voice edged with roughness.

The words land between us like a slap.

Ruby blinks, but she doesn’t step back or flinch. If anything, she looks more confused. “Like what?” she asks quietly.

And there it is again, that softness, the way she doesn’t push or get loud. It twists something in me I don’t want to name.

I shake my head once, sharper than necessary, as if I can physically knock the feeling loose.