Page 39 of Love on the Edge
"You don’t mean that," she whispers, but it doesn’t sound like a challenge. It sounds like a defense. Like she’s daring me to prove her wrong.
I lean forward, forearms resting on my knees, my voice low, even. "Yeah, I do."
She looks at me, and this time, she doesn’t blink it away. She just stares, like she doesn’t know what to do with this. With me.
And for the first time, I think she’s scared.
Her fingers curl in her lap, pressing into the fabric of her leggings, like she needs something to hold onto.
I exhale, lowering my voice. "Why did you pull me into that locker room, Val?"
She tenses. "I don’t know."
I shake my head. "Bullshit. You know."
She clenches her jaw but doesn’t say anything.
So, I keep going. "You were angry. You were frustrated. And you needed to forget. Why?"
Her eyes flicker, something flashing through them so fast I almost miss it. But I don’t. She inhales sharply, looking away. "Because if I stop, I have to feel everything."
The silence is deafening.
The words hang there, heavy, real, like she wishes she could take them back.
But she can’t.
And I won’t let her.
I nod slowly, because I get it. She has spent her whole life focused, controlled, pushing everything else aside. Letting someone in? That’s new.
"Then let’s figure it out," I say.
She hesitates. One second. Two. Then, she exhales, and it’s like something in her gives. "Okay," she says softly.
Not defiant. Not fighting.
Just a choice.
A choice to try.
A choice to let me in.
What do I donext?
I haveneverfelt this way before. Not like this. Not with someone like him.
I like Ethan. More than I should, more than I know how to handle, if I’m being honest with myself.
It has always been me. Just me. I push myself. I fall. I get back up. I don’t ask for help. I don’t need anyone.
But Ethan isn’t just anyone. And for the first time, I am starting to wonder what it would be like to let someone stay.
He watches me, silent and steady, not pushing, not demanding—just waiting.
I know he sees it. The fight in my head, the way I’m trying to make sense of this, of him, of what we are.
We’ve been honest with each other from the start. Brutally, painfully honest. Maybe that’s why this feels different. Maybe that’s why I should stop fighting it.
