Page 45 of Connor

But then— His head lifted and his eyes met mine and suddenly, I wasn’t just angry and depressed anymore. I was raging. Fuck him. I tore my gaze away, jaw clenched so tight myteeth ached, and kept moving. He wasn’t worth the air it would take to tell him to get the fuck off my porch.

But then—his voice came. Low. Wrecked. Like he had any fucking right to sound like that.

“Summer.”

The syllables crawled under my skin, hooked themselves into my ribs and pulled. My fingers clenched around the doorknob.

I should have kept walking. Should have slammed the door in his face. Should have done anything but what I did—because I was better than this.

Or at least, I used to be. Iforced my expression into something flat, and pushed the door open. I didn’t invite him in. I didn’t tell him to follow. But I left the door cracked just enough. Because if he wanted to say something—if he wanted to stand in my living room and try—if he wanted to lie to my fucking face again—then fine.

Let him. Let him choke on the words before I threw them back in his face. I kicked off my shoes and walked into the living room, my pulse thrumming against my skull. The air behind me shifted, a new weight pressing into the walls, and I knew—knew—he had stepped inside.

Connor lingered near the door.

He should be bracing.

I crossed my arms, my heartbeat hammering against my ribs, barely restrained fury curling hot and tight in my chest. “Say what you came to say, Connor.” My voice was sharp. Cold.

His jaw flexed. A muscle twitched in his cheek. He took a slow breathlike he was trying to calm himself down—like he had any fucking right to be the one who needed calming.

“I’m sorry.”

A bitter laugh shot out of me, sharp enough to cut. “For what?” I snapped, tilting my head. “Be specific, because there’s a lot to be sorry for.”

“For everything.”

I scoffed. “That’s convenient.”

“I mean it, Summer.” His voice was rough. Strained. Like saying those words was physically painful.

I stepped closer, voice low and dangerous. “Do you?”

His nostrils flared, but he nodded. “Yeah.”

I let that sit between us for a second. Let him think that those two syllables would fix anything before I ripped the ground out from under him.

“Good,” I said lightly. “Because if you didn’t, I’d really hate for you to go around fucking strangers with a clear conscience.”

His entire body locked up. There it was—that was all the evidence I needed. My blood boiled.

“You always were good at that, weren’t you?” I continued, voice syrupy-sweet with venom. “What was it this time, Connor? Did you tell her she was the best you ever had? Did you get bored halfway through? Did you picture me?”

I should’ve stopped. I should’ve shut up and let my silence be the last thing I ever gave him.

But I wanted to see him hurt.

I wanted him to feel the exact fucking agony that had been sitting in my chest since the moment he opened his mouth and called me a liar. He stepped closer, crowding me, his breath sharp.

“Is that what you think?” His voice was lower now, a growl beneath the anger, something raw and dangerous.

I tilted my chin up, refusing to back down. “I don’t have to think, Connor. I know.”

His lips curled, but there was nothing amused about it. “Yeah?” His voice dipped, sharp and cutting. “Then tell me, Princess—” The old nickname was a mockery now, laced with bitterness. “What do you know?”

My pulse was a violent rhythm against my ribs.

“I know you couldn’t even look me in the fucking eye the other night.” My voice wavered, but I pushed through. “I know you ran straight to the nearest open pair of legs to make yourself forget.”

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