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Home.

This family.

Fuck, I wanted to be worthy of them. Stand for who I was supposed to be. But I was faltering.

Falling.

Fuck, if I was being honest, I’d admit I’d fallen long ago.

I headed straight for the small powder room between the living room on the right and kitchen on the left.

Shut the door behind me and planted my palms on the sink. I did my best to pull my shit together. I turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on my face, scrubbing it like it might be able to break the visions that kept assaulting me.

Elena last night.

This morning.

In the shower.

On the back of my bike.

Way it’d felt when terror had assaulted me with that explosion. The outright horror that had locked my soul.

Truth that I didn’t think I could live without her.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I lifted my head and stared at my reflection in the mirror, trying to make sense of the senseless. Of my mistakes that in the moment felt like my highest achievement.

Three timid knocks sounded on the other side of the door.

“Occupied,” I grumbled.

“It’s me,” Elena whispered against the wood.

She issued it like it should immediately grant her access.

Apparently, it did, because I was turning and flicking the lock. I pulled the door open to find concern strewn all over her stunning face.

“Are you okay?” she asked, worry pinching up her brow.

“I’m fine.” I gritted it while my heart jackhammered in my chest.

She hesitated, then rushed, “I’m sorry, I…”

“Don’t apologize, Elena,” I said, cutting her off as I stepped out of the bathroom.

Drawn, my entire being angled her way. I kept my voice held low. “This is my fault. I’m the one who’s sending the wrong signals.”

I was the one who fucked up.

Hurt bunched her features, though there was a fire scorching beneath it. “Is that what they are? The wrong signals? Or are you just afraid of admitting that’s what you actually feel?”

I shifted around, and she was pinned to the wall before I processed the motion.

Inhaling her scent.

Apples and cinnamon.