Page 72 of Twisted Shot
Mila turns slightly, forcing a smile. “Sorry. Just tired.”
She leans her head back against the headrest and closes her eyes. All she can see behind her eyelids is Theo, looking tense and beautiful and broken open in front of her. The hallway. The weight in his voice. The way he turned and walked away as if he were doing her a favor.
His voice keeps looping in her head, rough, strained, and vulnerable, like it cost him something to say the words.
“People look at me like I’m broken.”
“You don’t have to pretend it’s fine.”
“I’m a mess.”
He hadn’t been defensive. He’d been exhausted.
Like he’d carried that weight for a long, long time.
And then, days earlier, in a different voice. This one was velvet-wrapped, cloaked in confidence but still aching underneath.
“I can’t be who you want me to be.”
Those words had stung when the Man in Black said them. She’d thought he was pushing her away, that he didn’t want her.
Not the way she wanted him.
But now she realizes—he wasn’t rejecting her.
Because Theo had said something almost identical. Said it while looking at her like he wanted to stay but had already decided he didn’t deserve to.
“Okay, what’s going on in that scary little brain of yours?” Naomi cuts in, looking at her with interest.
Mila startles. “What?”
“You’re in emotional airplane mode. Checked out. Head miles away. Who’s taking up all that mental real estate?”
Mila sighs. “It’s...complicated.”
Naomi raises a brow. “Is it the broody defenseman or your anonymous fantasy pen pal?”
Mila side-eyes her. “Are those my only choices?”
“I mean, unless you’ve got a secret third guy stashed somewhere, yeah.”
Mila huffs out a laugh. It feels good to laugh. Even if it’s short-lived.
“They’re the same person,” she says quietly.
“You’re sure?” Naomi asks.
Mila doesn’t move for a long moment. Her fingers curl slightly around the edge of the tray table, pressing into the cheap plastic until her nails ache.
“I…” she whispers, closing her eyes. “I think I figured it out.”
Naomi’s stare settles on her like a weight. No teasing now. Just quiet.
When she speaks, her voice is low, careful. “How do you feel?”
Mila’s hand drifts to the delicate chain around her neck. Her fingers toy with the charm there—a tiny silver star.
“I feel like my heart is sitting too close to the surface,” she says.
