Page 75 of Bend

It's just us.

That's what snaps me out of it.

For one wrecked second, I melt completely, leaning in deeper, wanting more with every fiber of my being. But the realization hits like a wave—the raw vulnerability of it all, exposed and real, pulling me back.

I shove him off me hard enough that he stumbles back a step.

The whole garage goes cold and bright again.

Wolfe looks at me, breathing hard, mouth red from kissing, and I hate how much I still want to drag him right back in.

“Thorne—”

“Don’t.”

My voice comes out flat this time. Sharper. Colder.

I grab my helmet off the bench, kill the speaker, flick off the work light over my bay, then the strip above the bench too. One by one. Fast. Like shutting the place down will help me shut this down with it.

It doesn’t.

Nothing does.

I don’t look at him when I shoulder past. I just head straight for the side door, pulse going mental, mouth still burning, whole body lit up with the exact thing I’ve spent days trying not to admit.

Want.

Him, and Christ, that’s bad enough on its own.

What makes it worse is the shame that comes right in behind it, hot and immediate. The embarrassment of how fast I gave in. How easy it was. How for those few seconds I was all over him like I hadn’t spent the last week acting like none of this was real. Like I hadn’t been dodging him, blanking Echo, pretending I was above the whole bloody thing when really I’ve just been scared of what happens if I stop pretending.

“You can’t run from this forever, you know,” he calls after me.

And fuck, I can hear it in his voice.

The hurt. Not just frustration, or anger. Hurt.

I did that. I put that bloody shit there.

That lands somewhere ugly in my chest, sharp enough to make me want to stop, turn around, say something that doesn’t make me sound like a complete coward.

But I don’t, because I’ve already embarrassed myself enough for one night, and if I look at him again right now, I don’t trust myself not to go straight back and make this even worse.

So I shove through the side door and let it slam behind me.

The night air hits me hard and humid, but it doesn’t do much.

I’m still too hot, too wound up, and aware of my own body in a way that’s equal parts humiliating and impossible to fucking ignore.

My skin feels too tight and my head is a fucking mess.

My mouth still feels like him.

Blood brilliant.

Absolutely fucking brilliant.

I stalk across the lot, jaw locked, keys already in my hand, trying not to think about the look on his face, or the way his voice cracked around that last line, or the fact that I know, really know—I hurt him.