With everything.

I want to be good for her. To be the man she sees when she looks at me with her heart in her eyes. But underneath, I'm all sharp edges and smoke. I'm terrified that staying close will only burn her.

I kissed her like she was mine. Touched her like she was sacred. Loved her like it wouldn't destroy us. But in the brutal quiet of night, one question splinters through me: Did I just fuck up the one good thing I've ever had?

I know exactly when it happened. I saw it.

Felt it.

One moment she was clinging to me like I was worth holding—and then...

Her eyes changed first.

That flicker—impossible to miss. Not fear of me, but something deeper. A shadow I know too well. I've seen it in the mirror. On Mom's face whenever Scott entered a room. The kind of fear that bruises souls, not just skin.

Her breath hitched in panic. Her hands trembled. Her heartbeat raced against mine like she was running with nowhere to go.

She pulled back—not physically—but I felt her retreat. Curl inward like an animal cornered once too often. Her tears fell quietly, almost apologetically, as if pain was something she had to bear alone.

I wanted to tear the world apart and rebuild it so she'd never feel that way again. I held her tighter, fingers in her hair, whispering her name like a lifeline.

Then she whispered his.

"Evan."

One word.

One name—and everything inside me detonated.

That smug prick from the restaurant with our moms, looking at her like she was something to take. I should've known when Ollie mentioned him. Should've done something.

Now I know.

And I want to kill him.

I've never felt rage so blinding and feral. It rose so fast I thought I'd be sick. But I couldn't move or react. Because this moment wasn't about me.

It was about her—trusting me to hold her through her silent breaking.

So I stayed and became the wall she could lean on. My storm could wait. I prayed my touch didn't make it worse. That maybe my presence could help mend what was torn from her.

She deserves peace and safety. I don't know if I can give her that. But I'll try. Because even broken and haunted by whatever that bastard did, she's still the bravest, most beautiful thing I've ever known. I'm worried she'll never see herself the way I do.

"Nate?" Her voice breaks through, soft and trembling as her hand cups my face. Her thumb traces my cheek, grounding me, pulling me back from the edge. "What's wrong?"

"You're asking me what's wrong?" Of course, she is—she always puts everyone before herself. I press my forehead to hers, trying to steady the hurricane in my chest.