Page 107 of I’m The Worst

And in the back of my fucking head, I can’t stop playing Miranda’s words. That look on her face when she saw me. Like I’m still the brother she knew.

Fuck no.

My fingers flex against the wheel until my knuckles burn white.

Dylan.

That name should’ve burned in that house. Along with everything they did in it. I’m not that kid. Not the one who couldn’t fight back. Not the one who stayed quiet and took it.

I outgrew that real fucking quick.

Memories push up anyway, but I slam them back down before they take shape. Before I see anything I don’t want to see. Before I feel anything I don’t have time for.

This is what I am.

This is where I belong. The rest doesn’t matter. The sooner this mission is over, the better.

The headlights sweep over the old warehouses as I pull back toward the MI6 safehouse. We’ll stay one more night, then we move farther north to find the best port to go through. And get the fuck off this goddamn continent.

I dump the bags on the floor the second we’re inside and head straight for the bedroom.

“Wolff, seriously. What’s our plan? What are we going to do?”

I toss my jacket onto the bed, my hands already dragging my shirt up because the stitches are pulling and I can feel something’s wrong with them. I don’t have the patience for another round of bullshit questions. I need to check the damage. Get my head on straight for five fucking minutes.

“Are we really doing this?” she pushes, stepping into my space. “Pretending we’re married? Playing house on a ship like we’re normal people?”

My side lights up immediately as I pull off my shirt. The pain is so sharp I feel it in my teeth. Fuck. I sit on the edge of the bed, opening the first aid kit, zoning my attention onto something I can control.

“Let me help.”

“No.”

“But you can’t⁠—”

“I don’t want you fucking touching me,” I grit out as my fists clench, fighting through pain and frustration.

She rears back, lips pinched. “You’re such a fucking—” But she cuts herself off and turns, leaving before I have to hear the rest. The bathroom door opens, and a second later, the shower kicks on.

Finally, some goddamn silence.

I lean forward, digging through the kit, forcing my hands to steady as I work at the stitches. It takes longer than it should. My shoulder’s still fucked, grinding when I move. Everything feels off—my grip, my head, the way my side keeps pulling every time I breathe too deeply.

It’s not just the pain.

It’s her.

The way she looked at me in the bathroom. The way she keeps looking at me now, like she’s waiting for something I’m not going to give her. My jaw tightens as I tape fresh gauze over the wound and toss the blood-soaked mess aside.

I catch my reflection in the mirror across the room.

I look like shit.

Feel worse.

I need sleep. And I need the noise in my head to shut the fuck up. I grab a bottle of vodka from the kitchen on the way back, unscrewing the cap. The bathroom door is cracked, steam pouring out, her silhouette shifting behind the glass.

I stop, lean back against the wall, staring at the blurred outline of her body through the haze, and take a long pull from the bottle.