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Her fingers tighten around the mug, grounding herself. “Does that bother you?”

…Yes.

No.

Everything about her bothers me in ways I don’t have vocabulary for.

“It just makes things… complicated,” I say.

“Because?” she presses, gentle but brave.

Because I’m starting to fall for you.

Because I don’t understand your walls.

Because I don’t know what you’re running from.

Because I don’t know how much you’ll let me know.

I swallow instead of saying any of that.

“Because I don’t want you to feel cornered by anyone. Including them.”

Her breath catches.

For a moment, she just watches me. Really watches me.

The kettle begins to boil.

She turns away, flustered.

I pretend not to notice.

We step out on the back porch, mugs steaming between us, the lake a dark mirror just beyond the railing.

“Do you ever sleep?” she asks, teasing.

“Rarely,” I say. “You?”

She huffs a laugh. “Define sleep.”

The silence after isn’t awkward. It’s loaded.

She sips her tea, looking anywhere but at me.

“You asked earlier,” I say softly. “If I were angry.”

She nods.

“I wasn’t.”

Pause.

“I was… scared.”

Her eyes snap to mine.

Of what?They say without words.