Page 22 of Break Me

It feels haunted.

Samuel’s bike is parked behind it, hidden from the road.

With a long groan of old wood, the barn door slides open.

Inside, dust motes drift through broken beams of sunlight. The smell of old hay and time lingers in every corner.

Samuel stands near the loft ladder, hood down, his hands braced on his hips. He looks like he hasn’t slept. Like the whole world sat on his chest last night and hasn’t bothered to move.

His eyes lift when I step inside. And everything in me breaks.

“Sam,” I whisper.

He swallows hard. “Thanks for coming.”

His voice is different. Wrong.

I move closer. “You didn’t answer me last night.”

“I know.” His voice cracks on the second word. “I’m sorry.”

Tension fills the space between us. Heavy. Expectant.

“Raven.” His jaw flexes. “We can’t keep seeing each other.”

The words hit me like someone knocked the breath out of my lungs.

“What?” The word barely comes out.

He looks at the ground, then at the wall, at anything that isn't me.

“I don't like sneaking around. I hate it, actually. This isn't fair to you. Stolen nights in the bed of my truck or this damn barn. Looking over our shoulders every time we're together. Acting like we're doing something wrong when all I want is to be with you.”

He blows out a breath.

“You should be able to hold someone's hand in public. Go out to dinner. Build something real without worrying who's going to find out.” His voice roughens. “I just don't know how to give you that, Raven.”

My chest tightens until it hurts.

“I don’t care about any of that,” I say, stepping closer. “I care about you. That’s all I’ve ever cared about.”

He shakes his head like he hates himself for how much he wants to believe me.

“You should care about more.”

“I don’t.” My voice shakes. “I want you. I’ve always wanted you.”

His eyes shut like that's the one thing he can't handle.

“You're only nineteen,” he says quietly.

“So?”

A humorless laugh escapes him.

“So you've barely lived yet, Raven.”

I open my mouth, but he keeps going.