Page 53 of I’m The Worst

“Nothing.” His deep voice rumbles near my ear. “I don’t think.”

The gun clicks empty.

He takes it from me without another word and sets it on the dresser. I rub my wrists, trying to work out the sting.

“Really? You don’t picture their faces or people you hate or⁠—”

He’s already reloading, sliding bullets into the magazine with that same mechanical rhythm. Cold air bites through my clothes as I lean back against the window frame. Snow drifts along the sill and melts against my skin.

He doesn’t look at me.

“What do you hate? Besides being touched. And talking. And people.” I push off the window and move to the bed, dropping onto the edge. His back stays to me.

“I hate a lot of things,” I mutter. “Spiders. That’s a big one.” A small, humorless chuckle slips out. “Being trapped in the trunk of a car. That one’s new.”

Silence.

“I guess I can’t blame everything on Akim. I hated things before him too.”

I keep talking.

I don’t even know why.

He’s not listening. He’s not even turning around. But the silence feels worse if I stop. Like it’ll close in on me if I don’t fill it.

“I hate snakes. Heights. That feeling when you wake up, and for a second, everything’s fine…and then…” My throat tightens. “Then you remember.”

He moves before I can say anything else. Crossing the room and disappearing into the bathroom, he shuts the door behind him.

Blowing out a breath, I run my fingers through my tangled hair.

Why am I even talking?

The shower turns on a second later, and I glance at the bedroom door. I could leave. Find some alcohol to drink…

Falling back onto the bed, I stare at the ceiling, at the cracks running through the plaster. But my mind won’t stay there. It drifts back to him. His hand over mine. The way he stood behind me. His deep voice in my ear.

I shouldn’t want that.

I shouldn’t want any man near me.

But it gives me something else to focus on—something that isn’t the constant, gnawing panic now living in my chest.

My gaze shifts to the bathroom door, where steam creeps into the room.

I bite my lip.

Images of him consume my mind—water sliding over his broad shoulders, down his defined back. Over the hard muscles and scars along his torso. The dark ink on his arm.

My fingers brush my inner thigh.

It’s fucked up. But I want to touch him. To feel the warmth of his body, to be close to someone.

No.

Not just someone. To be close to him.

And that might be the worst part.