Page 39 of Desperate People

And that—God help me—that’s why I’m here, sitting in his car, going to his place.

I don’t want comfort.

I want retribution.

I want the one man I know won’t flinch at how dark things might get.

Balor doesn’t judge me.

Doesn’t blame my face?—

The one I had no say in.

The one the world decided belonged to them the moment I turned thirteen.

The one photographers dissect with lighting and filters and contracts.

The one men leer at like an invitation, and women whisper about like a weapon.

He doesn’t blame me for that.

Doesn’t twist it around and make it something ugly.

Doesn’t call me vain for being visible.

Or dangerous for being wanted.

He doesn’t make me feel like I should apologize for existing in this skin.

Or for the clothes I wear.

For being too much, too bold, too visible, too me.

He doesn’t shrink me down to make himself bigger.

Doesn’t call me fragile just because I cry.

Doesn’t call me dramatic when I burn.

No—Balor Cruz does none of that. And he sees it all.

The beauty, the burden, the bruises I don’t show.

And somehow, he never looks away.

He looks through it.

Through me.

Like he’s the only one who ever bothered to see the girl behind the face.

And not just the girl—but the fighter.

The woman.

The fire.

And that?

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