Page 124 of Danger

Fuck. She looks like she doesn’t have a single worry in the world. Like she didn’t spend the last week being distant.

She looks happy. I hope she is but I hate that I might be the reason she isn’t underneath that smile. I adjust my hat and start walking. I’ve faced down two thousand pounds of muscle with less nerves than this.

The moment her eyes find mine, the smile falters. I reach for her waist and she lets me. That almost hurts worse than if she’d pulled away.

“You look good,” I whisper, close enough that my mouth brushes the shell of her ear.

“I’m starting to feel like myself again,” she says lightly.

“Can we talk?”

She looks up at me then—calm. Too calm. Like she’s already heard the conversation in her head.

“Do we have to do it tonight?”

I hold her gaze. Don’t look away. “I want to.”

Her eyes search mine like she’s confirming something she already believes.

“…you don’t have to explain anything.”

She says it like she’s already filled in the blanks.

Around us, the room keeps moving—laughter, music, glasses clinking.

“I want to anyway.”

She gives a small shrug, like it doesn’t matter either way.

“Well,” she says, setting her drink down, “guess we might as well do it now.”

She turns before I can say anything else and starts walking toward the back. Not angry. Not rushed. Like she’s already preparing herself for whatever she thinks I’m about to admit.

I watch her go. The sway of her dress, the tension in her shoulders, the fact that she didn’t once look back to see if I’m following.

A slow grin pulls at my mouth. There she is.

My brave Winnie.

Still mine enough to fight.

I see her slip into the back room, and I follow in after her. She’s petting that damn cat but glances at me once I walk in and shut the door.

There’s usually something in her eyes when she sees me—like she hopes that I'm better than I am. Like she can see through every half-truth I feed the world and still chooses to stand in front of me anyway. That’s not there tonight—still just distance.

I’m suffocating, drowning in her silence. She folds her arms like she’s packing herself away from me, piece by piece.

“Winnie… I’ve been waiting for the right time to talk about all this.”

“There’s nothing to talk about, Dutton.”

First name. That’s not good. I’d rather her yell, cry, talk—I’d take any of that over this.

She finally looks at me again, and I almost wish she hadn’t.

“You told me exactly who you are,” she says quietly. “And now I finally believe you.”

“Who am I?”