Page 37 of Desperate People

None of this is.

Not to him.

Not to me.

Not to us—if there even is such a thing.

I glance sideways. His profile is tight.

Rigid. Controlled.

But his grip on the steering wheel gives him away.

White-knuckled. Barely holding it together.

And that does something to me.

Makes my heart twist in on itself.

Because I want to be held.

Not coddled. Not pitied. Not protected because I’m some delicate ornament he once admired from a distance.

I want him.

But he’s the one who walked away.

Told me we couldn’t happen.

Told me I was too good. Too shiny. Too much.

So what the hell am I supposed to think now?

Why was it him I called?

Why is he the one who came, no questions, ready to burn the world down?

What does that say about me?

What does it say about us?

He doesn’t look at me, but his jaw ticks.

“Don’t test me, Lucy,” he mutters.

Voice rough. Frayed.

“I'm hanging on by a thread right now.”

And something inside me fractures.

Because that doesn’t sound like indifference.

That sounds like a man drowning in the weight of everything he’s been holding back.

My breath catches.

And for the first time in hours, I realize—I’m not the only one who’s hurting.

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