Page 112 of Make Me Mean It

I barely make it a step before his fingers close around my wrist.

“Are you-”

I spin back. “Do not finish that fucking question.”

I tear my wrist out of his grip, the movement pulling sharply through my hips, making me wince.

Connor’s jaw clenches, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip, and the guilt written across his face has heat crawling up the back of my neck.

“At least come sit down,” he says quietly, still refusing to look at me.

I straighten despite the ache pulling through my body. “I’m good.”

“Theo.” Connor exhales my name again, quieter this time, the rough edge of it catching somewhere beneath all the irritation still burning through me. His fingers brush my arm, and it’s barely a touch, but my skin prickles beneath it anyway. “Please.”

I stare at him, every sensible thought in my head telling me to turn around, get back on my bike and save whatever scraps of dignity I’ve got left. But sensible has never exactly been my thing.

Connor steps back at my short nod, opening the door wider, leaving me enough room to pass if I turn sideways, but not enough to avoid him completely. My shoulder brushes his chest as I squeeze through, his warmth catching against me along with the familiar smell of his aftershave.

The same fucking aftershave clinging to the shirt I’m wearing.

I glance down just as Connor’s hand lifts slightly at his side, fingers twitching towards me before curling into his palm.

I move farther into the flat, looking around.

A chair is sitting crooked beside the table, half tipped onto one leg. The lamp beside the sofa has been knocked sideways, and shards of ceramic are scattered across the floor, catching the morning light in sharp little flashes.

This isn’t messy.

I’ve seen Connor annoyed because someone left a mug in the wrong place. I’ve watched him straighten shit without even seeming to notice he’s doing it.

This looks like he tore through the room.

“What the fuck happened?”

Connor crouches beside the cabinet, not answering me and starts picking up the broken ceramic piece by piece, setting each shard carefully into a box.

I watch him reach for another piece, his fingers shaking.

“Connor,” I sigh, and his hand stops over the floor.

“Please sit down,” he says tightly, pushing himself upright. His hand lifts towards my arm, almost reaching me before he seems to think better of it and lets it fall.

My teeth grind together.

“I’m fine.”

I lean my shoulder against the wall instead, shifting enough weight onto it to take some of the strain off my hips, the relief instant.

Connor’s eyes narrow before he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Don’t be difficult, Theo. You’re in pain.”

He drops back into a crouch and reaches for the ceramic again, but whatever careful system he had going is gone now. The pieces hit the box harder, one after another.

A humourless laugh slips out of me.

“And why would you care?”

The question has been sitting behind my teeth since he opened the door, and now that one piece of it is out, the rest comes with it.