Page 5 of Ruin Me Gently

“You’re always doing this,” he snapped. “Acting like everything’s fine until you decide it’s not, and suddenly I’m the bad guy.”

I tried to pull away, but his hand only cinched tighter.

“You’re not fucking going anywhere.”

His fingers clamp hard around my leg.

I twist, try to pull away, but his grip only tightens.

“You always have to push, don’t you?” His breath reeks of cigarettes, hot against my ear.

My nails scrape the door frame—inches away. One good pull and I could—

His grip tightens again.

“You’re not leaving.”

“Clark, please,” I choked out, breath hitching now. “Please, let go of me.”

For a second, I thought he wouldn’t. He held tight, crushing me, like he needed me toreallyhurt before he’d let me go.

And then, he dropped his hand. Like I wasn’t even worth the effort anymore.

I sat back, rubbing my thigh. My skin throbbed beneath my palm, and I knew I’d find bruises later. Ugly, splotchy marks that would bloom overnight.

“I don’t understand why you always get like this when you’re tired,” he muttered, raking a hand through his hair.

“I… I really don’t know,” I said quietly, because I couldn’t think of anything else to say. Because I wanted—needed—this to be over.

He sighed heavily, like I’d added to his long list of burdens.

“It’s exhausting,” he huffed. “You know that? You’re exhausting sometimes.”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

Because that’s what I was supposed to say. Because it was easier that way.

And honestly? Maybe he was right.

Iwasexhausting sometimes. I knew that. I’d been hearing it since I was a kid. Too loud, too emotional, too sensitive, too much. It had stuck like gum to my ribs, this constant reminder that I was supposed to make myself smaller, quieter, easier to manage.

I was thirty-one years old now. A grown woman who survived on caffeine, sarcasm, and whatever cocktail of antipsychotics my doctor decided to shove down my throat. I knew I wasn’t easy to deal with. I knew I wasn’t some calm, soft-spoken, effortlessly cool person that people gravitated toward. I wasn’t light-hearted or laid-back or chill in that way that made people want to be around me.

I was…work.

And maybe Clark was tired of that. Maybe I couldn’t blame him.

I rubbed at the dull ache in my thigh, feeling the heat of it under my palm.

But maybe that was my fault too. Maybe if I’d just kept my mouth shut, just smiled more, just beenless—maybe none of this would’ve happened.

I swallowed hard, trying to breathe around the tightness building in my chest.

“You’re exhausting.”

I couldn’t even argue with him. Because sometimes? Sometimes I felt exhausting to myself too.

His hand slid over mine. Soft this time. Warm. Like nothing had happened.

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