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Because the truth?

I’m scared of what it does mean.

I’m scared of what she means.

And she sees it.

She sees it.

Her breath shudders slightly, and she shakes her head, stepping back. “That’s what I thought.”

I move toward her, but she lifts a hand. “Don’t.”

I freeze.

She inhales, then exhales, steadying herself, before looking up at me one last time. “Go home, Graham.”

And then she turns.

And this time?

I let her go.

I don’t move.

Not at first.

I stand there, jaw locked, hands curled into fists, watching her disappear into the crowd.

Go home, Graham.

The words echo in my head, reverberating like a fucking punch to the ribs.

I should go.

I should let her walk away, and give her the space she clearly wants.

But I don’t want to.

I drag a hand over my jaw, exhaling hard, willing myself to turn around, to be rational, to not follow her back inside and make a bigger scene than we already have.

But fuck if that isn’t exactly what I want to do.

My pulse is still hammering, my head still clouded with frustration—at her, at myself, at this entire situation I let get too far out of my hands.

I run my tongue over my teeth, staring at the door she just walked through.

I could fix this.

I could walk back in there, pull her aside, make her listen—make her understand that this thing between us is not something I take lightly.

But that’s the problem, isn’t it?

Because if I do that, if I tell her what I really feel—what I really want—then I have to admit that this isn’t just something casual.

I have to admit that I’m in too deep.

That I was in too deep the second I saw her in that bar in Cape Town.