CHAPTER [X]

The bar was exactly the kind of place she'd promised herself she'd stopped coming to. Low amber lighting that made everyone look like they were already mid-seduction, velvet booths that swallowed people whole, and a drink menu that cost more than most people's weekly groceries. She'd told herself it was just for the night. One night of pretending she was someone else, someone who didn't have a calendar full of meetings and a reputation to maintain.

Three weeks had passed since she'd last been here. Three weeks of telling herself she didn't need this. And yet here she was, scotch in hand, watching the door like she expected someone to walk through it.

This is pathetic, she thought. She'd never been the type to wait around for a man. She'd built her entire life on the opposite of that, on being the one who left, the one who didn't get attached.

The bar was busier than she'd expected for a Thursday. Guys in thousand-dollar suits laughed too loudly, women in black dresses whispered to each other, their eyes tracking the room. It was a place where everyone came to play the same game. Nobody used their real name. Nobody told the truth. She'd thought that was what made it easy.

Then she'd met him.

He'd been leaning against the far end of the bar, nursing a drink he hadn't touched. She'd noticed him because he was the only one not playing the game, not trying to catch anyone's eye. He'd let her look at him, let her take him in from head to toe, and when she'd finally met his gaze, he'd smiled. Slow. Like he knew exactly what she was thinking.

Now here she was, three weeks later, back in the same bar like some sort of lovesick teenager. She was better than this. She'd worked too hard to get where she was. She'd clawed her way through the corporate world with her elbows out, never once looking back at the men who'd underestimated her. And she wasn't about to let some stranger with good cheekbones undo all that.

But she hadn't been able to stop thinking about him. That was the truth. Even when she'd tried to convince herself this wasn't something she needed, those gray eyes had followed her into the shower and found her in the dark between three and four in the morning. The way he'd held her afterward, his hand pressed flat to her spine, his mouth against her shoulder. She'd left before he woke up because she couldn't handle the thought of him confirming what she already knew.

The scotch burned on the way down, but the familiar warmth didn't settle her the way it usually did. She was too wound up, too aware of every sound, every movement. Maybe he wouldn't be here tonight. Maybe he'd been a memory she'd half-invented, a perfect moment she'd constructed because she needed to believe something could be that good without any of the complications.

No. No, he'd been real. She remembered that much. Every time she closed her eyes, she could still feel his hands on her, taste him on her tongue. That kind of fire wasn't something you imagined.

BEAT 2

"Didn't peg you for someone who would take a chance, gorgeous."

Her head snapped up at the voice in her ear. The scotch sloshed dangerously in her glass, and she gripped it tighter to keep the tremor out of her hand. She'd felt him approach before she'd seen him, the same way she'd felt him across the bar that first night, like some kind of sixth sense.

"I'm not sure what you mean," she said, hating how breathless she sounded.

"You know exactly what I mean." He settled onto the stool next to her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his body. He was wearing a gray suit that cost more than her last month's rent, his tie loosened at the collar. "Three weeks, and not once did I see you walk through these doors. I figured you were gone for good."

"Maybe I wanted to make you work for it."

He laughed at that, a low rumble she felt in her chest. "Funny. I remember things a little differently. I remember you leaving before I could even get your name."

"You didn't seem to mind."

"I minded plenty." He signaled for the bartender, ordered something expensive without looking at the menu. "You were gone when I woke up. Thought I'd imagined you."

She took another sip of her scotch, studying him through her lashes. He was even better looking than she remembered. Sharp jaw. Full lips. And that swagger. Dear God, the swagger was practically rolling off him in waves. He looked like trouble of the very best kind, the kind that left you gasping and aching for more.

They watched each other over the rim of his glass. He seemed to be waiting for her to make the first move. She'd been working at a huge marketing firm for the past three weeks, and she'd gotten very used to being the one in charge. But here, with him looking at her like that, she felt her carefully built control begin to crumble. She wanted to think it was about the way he looked at her over breakfast. But she knew plenty about men, and this one was a particular brand of trouble she understood all too well.

"Maybe I'm not looking for a repeat performance," she said. Liar. The word practically burned a hole in her throat.

"No?" He raised an eyebrow. Then he reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and she forgot how to breathe. "Then why did you come back tonight, sweetheart?"

"Maybe I just like the drinks."

"Maybe you missed me."

"Presumptuous."

"Doesn't make it untrue." He traced a line down her arm, the touch light enough to send shivers racing across her skin. "I've thought about you. Every damn day. I've replayed that night so many times I can probably write you a biography."

She was glad she was sitting down. She took a shallow breath and pressed her thighs together, hoping he wouldn't notice how badly he was affecting her. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know there's a reason you left without saying goodbye," he said, his voice soft and sure. "I know you're scared of this. Of me."

"I'm not scared of you."

"Yes, you are." He smiled, slow and wolfish. "You're terrified of me. And that's okay, because I'm pretty fond of the way you look when you're scared."

"Fuck you," she managed, sounding breathless. His confidence was doing something to her, traveling down her spine and making everything feel tight and hot.

"That's the general idea," he said, leaning in close enough. The alcohol on his breath mixed with something expensive and woodsy, and she hated how much she liked it. "Though I have to admit, I'm used to them willing. I'd hate to think you came all the way back here just to give me a hard time."

"You'd be surprised what I'd do for a hard time," she said, hating herself for the double entendre even as it slipped out.

His grin turned positively filthy. "There she is. I was wondering when I'd meet her again."

She opened her mouth to fire back some retort, but she couldn't find the words. Not with him looking at her like that, like he already had her spread out on his bed. And she hadn't even asked his name, had never thought to ask. She'd been too caught up in the heat of the moment to wonder about the small details.

"Don't tell me you've forgotten already," he said, amusement flickering in those eyes. "You wound me."

"What is this, some kind of power trip for you?"

"It's whatever you want it to be, sweetheart."

"Stop calling me that."

"Would you rather I call you something else?" He traced a finger down her collarbone, and she sucked in a sharp breath. "Tell me your name. Tell me what you want. I'll give you anything."

BEAT 3

She was going to regret this. She could already feel the specter of regret, waiting in the shadows just out of sight, ready to swoop in. Her hands gripped his collar, knuckles brushing his skin. The sight of her own pale fingers against his expensive shirt was a shock. The image of her body wrapped around his, all tangled limbs and seeking mouths, hit her like a wall of heat.

"Take me somewhere private," she said, ignoring the way her voice shook. "Now."

He didn't need to be told twice. He grabbed her hand, and she was surprised at the strength in his grip. They pushed through the crowd, walking past the bar and down a dim, narrow hallway she'd never noticed before. A door stood at the end, leading to a private room with a heavy mahogany table. He shoved her inside and kicked the door shut behind them.

The click of the lock echoed through the room, definitive and final. He turned to face her, his eyes dark with want.

"Last chance to change your mind," he said. "Once I have you in that room, nothing you say will make me stop."

"I'd like to see you try to stop me." She was glad her voice came out steady and cold, even as heat raced through her veins. She'd had a fantasy about this exact moment all week, and she wasn't about to give up control now. She'd learned a long time ago that you gave an inch, they took a mile. She wasn't about to hand him the keys to her sanity.

He didn't waste time.

His chest collided with hers, driving her backward until her spine hit the wall. He slammed one hand against the wall beside her head, and the other came around to hold her hip, gripping her tight. He pressed his thigh between her legs, nudging her legs apart, and she let out a noise she was ashamed of.

"There it is," he murmured against her mouth, tongue tracing the seam of her lips. "There's my girl."

"I'm not your anything."

"Could have fooled me."

He silenced her protest with his mouth, open and searching. She bit down on his lower lip, hard enough to draw a brief flash of pain. He groaned, the sound low and rough as his hands tightened on her body.

"You're a pain in the ass, you know that?" Some of the amusement left his face, replaced by something darker, more intense. "You're also mine. Whether you like it or not."

She should have been offended by that. She should have pushed him away and told him exactly what he could do with that kind of possessive bullshit. Instead, she reached down and grabbed his cock through his pants, squeezing.

"Then show me," she whispered.

He let out a shuddering breath and, without breaking eye contact, fell to his knees. He made quick work of her pants, peeling them down her hips. He pressed kisses to her stomach, then her hipbone, each touch scorching through her skin and leaving a trail of fire. By the time he reached her core, she was trembling with anticipation. He looked up at her, cheeks flushed, eyes dark.

"I've been thinking about this all week," he said, his voice a low rumble. "The sounds you make when you're close. The way you claw at my back."

She couldn't look away. He was so beautiful like this, all that power held in check. It was a heady feeling, knowing she could bring him to his knees.

"Make a sound, and I'll stop," he whispered.

"Your rules are-"

"Then shut up and let me fuck you."

His mouth on her, hot and wet and perfect. She'd never find another man who knew his way around a woman's body like he did. He looked at her over her slick heat. The way he looked at her, it was pure reverence.

Soft, open-mouthed kisses on her inner thighs. His breath on her center. Her fingers twisted in his hair. She was humiliated by how good he was at this, and she let her head fall back against the wall with a soft thud.

He chuckled, the vibration sending sparks through her. He pressed the flat of his tongue against her clit, and she bit down on her fist to stifle a moan.

"Look at me."

She obeyed, though it took effort. He was looking at her from between her thighs, gray eyes never leaving hers. He slid two fingers inside her, curling them, and drew a choked cry from her throat.

"That's better," he breathed, and resumed his attack on her clit.

She tried to hold back the sounds he was pulling from her, tried to keep some distance. It felt too good, too raw, too much of an unveiling in the dark. Her inner walls clenched and she closed her eyes, arching into his touch.

At last, she shattered, calling out his name. He held her through it, slowing down much too soon. Her body was still trembling when he stood up, pinning her to the wall with his hips.

"Ready for round two?" he asked, his voice rough.

She reached for his belt buckle and started to work the clasp. "I thought you'd never ask."

BEAT 4

The air in the room was thick and heavy, sweet with sex. She lay on the bed, sweat cooling on her skin, staring at the ceiling. She could hear him moving beside her, the rustle of fabric. A moment later, the telltale click of a lighter broke the silence.

"You're going to get yourself killed smoking those," she murmured, not even opening her eyes.

"Probably." She heard the smile in his voice. "There are worse ways to go."

She cracked one eye open. He was leaning against the headboard, looking rumpled and impossibly content. He took a long drag from his cigarette, holding the smoke in his lungs for a moment before letting it out slowly.

"I don't even know your name," she said.

"No, you don't." He said it lightly, like it didn't matter. "You also don't have to. That was, what, the third time? I'm a simple creature of habit, honey. I'm starting to think you might have a thing."

"Excuse me?"

"In my experience, a woman who comes back for more when she doesn't have to is usually looking for something."

"Or maybe I just enjoy myself." She pushed herself up on her elbows, glaring at him. "Did you ever consider that, Jack?"

"It's Jake. Much to my mother's disappointment."

Despite herself, she felt her lips twitch. "Your mother?"

"It's a long story. One I don't think I want to tell a woman who just yelled out the wrong name."

"I didn't-"

"You did. You absolutely did." He grinned, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "But don't worry, I'm not delicate. You can call me whatever you want, as long as I get to hear it again."

"This isn't a relationship, you know. I just... I came back because I wanted to see you again."

"The feeling's mutual, sweetheart." He flicked the ashes into a glass, his eyes never leaving her face. "I had a feeling you'd be back."

"And why's that?"

"Because I'm a good time." His smile turned smug. "The best. And I never forget a face."

"Another line you've used a thousand times, I'm sure."

"Maybe." He shrugged, unperturbed. "But what about you? What's your story, beautiful? Got a name I can use when I'm telling this story to my grandkids?"

She snorted. "You're the one who hasn't bothered to ask."

"I'm asking now."

"I don't see how it matters."

"It matters to me." He set the cigarette in the ashtray and turned to face her fully, tracing a lazy circle on her hip. "I want to know the woman who calls me 'Daddy' after one night."

"I don't-"

"You did." His grin widened.

"Is this the part where you tell me I belong to you?" She rolled her eyes, trying to ignore the heat pooling in her belly. "Because I'm not interested in being anyone's property, thanks."

"Who said anything about being owned? I'm just saying, this thing between us, it's good. Whatever it is, I'd be a fool to let it walk out that door."

"Maybe I have a boyfriend."

"Then you wouldn't be here."

"Maybe I'm the kind of girl who doesn't need a reason to do whatever the hell she pleases."

He studied her for a long moment, the heat of his gaze boring into her skin. "You'll tell me your name. Eventually. But for now, for tonight, I want to know what makes you tick." His thumb stroked her hip, burning a brand into her skin. "What do you do, when you're not keeping company in secret clubs?"

"I work in marketing," she said, after a moment. "Corporate. It pays the bills."

"Marketing. Huh."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. It's just... I pegged you for something else, that's all. You've got this way of looking at everything like you're one step away from your exit strategy." He shrugged, letting the subject go. "So, marketing. Do you like it?"

"It's fine. It's a job."

"Not what I asked."

She pulled away, reaching for her clothes. "Look, this was fun. But I should get going."

"What, no morning after snuggles?" He made it sound like a joke, but his eyes were strangely serious.

"I have work in the morning."

"It's two in the morning on a Sunday," he pointed out. "Even workaholics need a day off."

She was tempted. God, she was so tempted. She watched him watch her. He looked so different in the dim light—not the cocky stranger from the bar, but someone tired. She thought about what it would be like to wake up next to him, to feel his arms around her in the morning. The thought made her want to stay. It was the scariest thing she'd felt all night.

"Rain check," she said, and she hated how much she meant it.

BEAT 5

She left the club with his taste still on her lips and his number in her phone, though she had no intention of using it. The air outside hit her bare shoulders and she pulled her jacket tighter, trying to ward off the chill.

The morning sun was just beginning to peek over the skyline by the time she stumbled into her apartment. Her phone buzzed on the kitchen counter, and she glanced at the screen. A text from an unknown number. Did you get home safe? it read.

She stared at it until the screen went dark. She had half a mind to block the number, pretend the night had never happened. But she couldn't bring herself to do it. She wanted to see if this man would follow through. Part of her was holding out hope that he would.

She was in the shower, letting the hot water beat against her tired muscles, when she heard her phone buzz again. And again. She ignored it, stepping out to grab a towel. The screen was lit up with notifications. Three missed calls from an unknown number.

Fifteen missed calls.

Are you sure you got home okay? I'm starting to get worried.

Hey. Say something, beautiful.

She typed a reply with stiff fingers. I'm fine. Was in the shower.

Almost immediately, a reply. Good. I'd hate to think I had to come find you.

Would you have?

There was a long pause before his next message came through: What do you think?

She set the phone down, a smile tugging at her lips despite herself. She told herself she was smiling because he was being ridiculous, not because she was pleased he cared about how she got home.

Monday came too quickly, bringing with it the familiar press of deadlines and meetings. She buried herself in work, pushing thoughts of him to the back of her mind. She barely had time to think, let alone breathe, and she was grateful for it.

By Wednesday, she'd convinced herself she'd imagined the whole thing. He was just a figment of her imagination, a perfect fantasy she'd conjured up to get her through her boring life. She'd gotten used to seeing his name pop up on her phone. They'd fallen into an easy rhythm, trading texts late into the night that felt more intimate than anything they'd done with their clothes on. He'd nearly gone radio silent for two days, and she'd been lying to herself.

Then Friday rolled around, and she got called into her boss's office. The email had been brief. Urgent. She'd clutched her laptop and made her way over, pulling her shoulders back and steeling herself for whatever was coming.

"Ah, there she is," her boss, Karen, said. "You remember my son? He's officially the new VP of Development."

A figure rose from the chair across from Karen. He was tall, dressed in a charcoal suit. When he turned around, she felt the floor fall out from under her.

Gray eyes met hers. Gray eyes she knew intimately, that she'd had dreams about looking up at her from between her thighs.

"Good morning," he said, and his lips curved into a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "We meet again."

Her blood went cold.

"This is my son, Julian," Karen said, oblivious to the tension suddenly filling the office. "Julian, this is our head of marketing, Evelyn Reed. She's one of the best in the business."

"Pleasure," Julian said, extending a hand. She wanted to knock it away, keep him from touching her. But he was looking at her, his gray eyes calculating and cool. "Evelyn," he repeated, drawing out her name. "Funny. I feel like I've met you somewhere before."

It wasn’t in his nature to ask twice. A single glance down at her, that wordless question hanging in the air, and she answered by not moving away. He made the decision for both of them, reaching around her to press a warm palm against the small of her back. The pressure was light, but it spoke clearly enough. He guided her past the crowded bar and down a dim corridor that smelled of old wood and spilled whiskey, his thumb tracing the curve of her spine in a slow, deliberate question she answered by stepping closer to his side.

The corridor opened into a back room lit by flickering candlelight, and he chose a booth draped in heavy velvet that swallowed sound like it swallowed light. He turned her, and she went willingly, her back meeting the wall with a soft thud that she felt through her entire body. He stood close, too close, boxing her in without saying a word. One hand found the hem of her dress, fisting the fabric with a grip that said he wasn't letting go, while the other came up to cup her throat, his thumb pressing just below her jaw, tilting her head back.

She expected a moment of hesitation, a breath of stillness to let her change her mind. He gave her none. His mouth crashed onto hers, and she yanked him closer by the lapels of his jacket, her legs already wrapping around his waist like they belonged there. He groaned into her mouth, and she swallowed the sound. Her fingers dug into his shoulders as he pressed her harder against the wall, the dress riding up her thighs, the velvet cool against her bare skin where it touched.

They shifted together in a silent rhythm that knew exactly what it was doing. He carried her the few steps to the booth, lowering her onto the velvet seat and following her down, his body covering hers with a weight that made her forget where the wall ended and she began. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer still, as his mouth dragged down her neck, teeth grazing the skin there hard enough to leave a mark she'd find tomorrow and think of him. She gasped, and he swallowed the sound with another kiss, deep and demanding, like he had every right to her and he knew it.

The velvet was rough against her back as they moved together, hard and raw, nothing gentle left between them. Her fingers knotted in his hair, her other hand splayed across his back, feeling the muscles shift and tighten under her palm. His mouth found her ear, her jaw, the hollow of her throat, leaving a trail of stinging marks that bloomed hot against her skin. Each one claimed a piece of her she hadn't known she was offering.

It built between them like a wave that had been pulling back from shore all night, gathering force with every muffled cry and ragged breath. He drove her up with a rhythm that left her mind blank, white static flooding her thoughts as she raked her nails down his shoulders hard enough to leave red welts rising on his skin. His breath came ragged and hot at her ear, his own control splintering as she tightened around him. She bit down on his shoulder to keep from crying out, tasting salt and skin.

The peak hit them both at once, a shattering crest that left no room for thought. He went rigid above her, a rough sound torn from his throat, and she held him through it, her entire body trembling with the aftershocks. They stayed locked for a long moment, swaying at the edge of something neither of them knew how to name. Sweat-slicked skin pressed together, his forehead resting against hers, their breathing heavy and synchronized.

When he finally lifted his head, his eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. Her fingers traced absent patterns along his spine, still catching her breath. His thumb brushed the corner of her mouth, a surprisingly gentle gesture for a man who had just pinned her against the wall with an intensity that left her legs weak. He didn't say anything, and neither did she. Words felt like noise now, an interruption to the hush that had settled around them like the velvet draped across the booth.

His hand slid down her side to rest at her hip, his thumb rubbing small circles into the bare skin there. She appreciated the quiet, the moment of being held without expectation. She'd had her fair share of fast exits and awkward morning-afters, but this felt different, settled somehow, even though nothing about the way they were tangled together suggested stability.

He pulled back just enough to look at her, his gaze traveling across her face like he was memorizing the details. The silence that followed held a question she wasn't sure she knew how to answer, one that hovered in the dim light between them.

She pushed off the wall, straightening her dress with movements that felt too sharp, too jerky, like she was trying to reassemble herself from pieces that didn't quite fit anymore. Her hands were shaking. She noticed that before she noticed anything else—the tremor in her fingers as they smoothed down the fabric of her skirt, the way her breath came in short, shallow bursts that didn't seem to fill her lungs properly.

The air between them had turned cold, the kind of cold that settles into your bones and makes you forget what warmth felt like. He was easing away from her, adjusting his mask with practiced fingers, and she couldn't bring herself to watch. Couldn't bring herself to look at him at all, actually, because looking at him meant seeing whatever was in his eyes, and she didn't want to know. She didn't want to know anything right now. She wanted to disappear into the noise and the smoke and the pounding bass that vibrated through the floorboards.

She muttered something—she wasn't even sure what, some half-formed sound that might have been an excuse or might have been nothing at all—and slipped out of the booth before he could respond. If he said anything, she didn't catch it. Her legs ached as she pushed through the crowd, her heels catching on the sticky floor, but she didn't slow down. She weaved between bodies, past the bar where a woman in red was laughing too loudly, past the dance floor where a tangle of limbs moved in the strobe lights, past groups of people who didn't even glance at her as she passed.

Her heart was pounding with a terror she couldn't name. Not fear of him, exactly—she couldn't explain it even to herself. It was something rawer than that, something that lived in her chest and clawed at her ribs, demanding she run, run, run until her legs gave out.

She burst through the club's heavy doors and onto the cold sidewalk, the night air hitting her flushed skin like a slap. The sudden quiet was almost worse than the noise inside. She walked fast toward the corner, her hands trembling as she pulled out her phone. The screen was too bright. She squinted at it, flagging a cab with her free hand, the motion jerky and desperate.

A cab pulled up, its headlights cutting through the darkness. She didn't wait for it to stop completely before she yanked the door open and slid inside, muttering her address to the driver.

The inside of the taxi was warm, too warm. She rolled down the window halfway, letting the wind whip against her face as the cab pulled away from the curb. Her skin was still burning, though whether from the heat of the club or something else entirely, she couldn't tell. She pressed her palm against her chest, feeling her heart hammering beneath her ribs, and forced herself to take a slow breath. She didn't feel calmer. She felt untethered, like something inside her had come loose and she couldn't find the thread to pull it back together.

That was when her phone dinged.

She almost ignored it. She was in the middle of forcing the chaos in her head to settle, trying to make sense of what had just happened, what she'd been thinking when she let him close. But the sound was small and insistent, and she looked down without thinking.

Unknown number. One message.

You left your scent on me. I'm not letting that go.

She read it twice. The first time, the words barely registered, swimming in front of her eyes like they were written in a language she didn't know. The second time, they landed with the force of a physical blow. Her knuckles whitened around the phone, her grip so tight she thought the screen might crack.

Her mouth went dry. She stared at the words, the little blue bubble of text luminous and stark against the black of her screen, and felt her stomach drop.

You left your scent on me.

She could still feel his breath on her neck. Could still feel the press of his fingers on her forearm, the way he'd pulled her close like she'd belonged there. She could still smell herself on his skin, the ghost of her perfume mingling with something else, something she didn't want to put a name to.

I'm not letting that go.

She read it a third time, a fourth, the words carving into her with every pass. She told herself to reply. She told herself to tell him it was a mistake, to delete the message, block the number, pretend she'd never seen it. That was the logical thing to do. That was the sane thing to do.

But her fingers didn't move. Her thumb hovered over the keypad, and she could feel the weight of his words pressing against her chest, heavier than her own breath.

He knew her name. She hadn't told him, but he knew it. He'd said it once, whispered it against her ear like a secret, like a claim, and she should have pulled away then. She should have pulled away and walked out and never looked back. But she hadn't. She'd stayed, and now there was a message on her phone that made her feel like he was still standing too close.

She pocketed the phone without replying, her hand shaking as it disappeared into her bag. The words stayed with her anyway, burning behind her ribs like a brand.

I'm not letting that go.

The cab hummed through the empty streets, the city lights streaking past in smears of orange and yellow. She leaned her head against the cool glass of the window, watching her reflection waver and distort in the dark. She looked like someone else. A version of herself that had made a mistake she didn't understand yet.

She closed her eyes, and for a moment she let herself feel the terror she'd been trying to outrun. It wasn't the physical kind, not the sharp, immediate panic of a threat that made you run. It was quieter than that. Steadier. It was the feeling of a door opening somewhere behind her, a door she hadn't known was there before, and hearing the floorboards creak on the other side.

She kept her eyes closed until the taxi pulled up in front of her building. She paid the driver with hands that still wouldn't stop trembling, and when she finally stepped out onto the sidewalk, the night air had gone cold enough to sting. She walked to her door, key already in her shaking hand, and told herself she would delete the message.

She would delete it tonight. After she was inside, after the door was locked and the lights were on and she could breathe again.

But even as she closed the door behind her and slid the chain into place, she could feel her phone burning in her pocket. The weight of his words, the weight of his gaze, the weight of the way he'd said my like it was a fact she couldn't outrun.

She didn't delete it.

She couldn't.