Page 99 of You Owe Me

Both of us lying. Both of us convinced we’re protecting the other. Both of us drowning in secrets that started as love and twisted into something else entirely.

I should say something.

Tell her she doesn’t have to carry it alone. Tell her I already know something’s off and I’m not mad. I’m just tired.

Tell her that in twenty-four hours, I’ll be under anesthesia while strangers burn away the part of my heart that’s been trying to kill me, and if something goes wrong, she’ll spend the rest of her life thinking I died angry at her for whatever she’s been hiding.

But she crosses the room before I get the words out.

Drops her bag.

Drops the act.

And sits down next to me.

Not close enough. Not yet. But it’s something.

We sit in silence. Not angry. Not fine. Just… suspended between the truths we’re not telling and the lies we can’t maintain much longer.

My watch buzzes. 145 BPM. Still climbing.

If everything goes according to plan, this number won’t matter anymore after my surgery. The chaos in my chest will be controlled, managed, reduced to something that doesn’t threaten to explode every time I feel something too intensely.

But right now, sitting next to the girl who owns me completely while she carries secrets that are destroying her, it feels like my heart might give out before I ever make it to that operating table.

I turn my head, ready to speak.

But she gets there first.

“Not tonight,” she whispers.

Her voice is soft. Cracked. Final.

I blink. “Ainsley…”

She leans in and presses her lips to my cheek, and I can feel her trembling.

“Please. Just let me touch you.”

The words hit like a confession. Like surrender. Like someone who knows she’s about to lose everything and wants one more moment before it all falls apart.

And before I can answer, before I can tell her that I understand, that I’m scared, too, that we’re both drowning in the same ocean of well-intentioned deception?—

She’s sliding to her knees.

She kneels between my legs like she’s been here before. Like she belongs there. Like this is the one place where neither of us has to lie.

My chest rises slowly. Controlled. Because if I breathe too fast, I might say something stupid—like don’t, or I love you, or please, just talk to me.

And she’s already given me her boundary: Not tonight.

Her fingers hook into the waistband of my sweats, her gaze flicking up just long enough to ask permission without saying a word. There’s something desperate in her eyes—not just desire,but need. Like she’s drowning, and this is the only thing that feels real anymore.

I know the feeling.

I nod once. Barely.

The fabric slides down, and her hands are warm against my skin. Warmer than they should be, like she’s been running or nervous or both. Her touch is gentle but certain, like this is a language she knows fluently, and she’s choosing to speak it instead of the one where we talk ourselves in circles and leave each other bleeding.

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