Chapter 4

*Run.* The word screams through my head as I shove past a cluster of laughing guests, nearly upending a tray of drinks. No time to apologize, no looking back — I just run.

My heart hammers painfully, drowning out even the music fading behind me as I flee the suffocating ballroom. Confused voices blur into background noise. None of it matters except getting out, now.

I burst through the doors into the cold night air, stumbling as I gasp for breath like someone surfacing from underwater. But the relief I'm hoping for doesn't come — it never does. My chest stays tight, my hands keep shaking, and he's still lodged in my thoughts. *With me,* he'd said. I shake my head, denying it, arms wrapped around myself. I can't let myself consider it. Men like him don't belong in my world, and even if they did, they wouldn't stay.

I move away from the building, picking up speed, desperate for distance.

Then his voice stops me cold: "Running again?" I turn slowly, and there he is, leaning against a black car like he owns the night, like he knew exactly where I'd end up. Of course he did.

My pulse spikes again, worse than before. I ask why he's here. He straightens, saying he doesn't like unfinished business. I insist that back there was nothing — a lie, and a bad one. He notes it doesn't feel like nothing. I step back; he notices that too, telling me to stop acting like he's the one I should fear.

That's exactly the problem — I'm not afraid of him, and that scares me more than anything. I admit I don't even know him. He points out that I reacted to him like I do anyway. I look away, because he's right again.

I ask why he cares, why me. There's a brief pause before he answers simply: because he wants to. My stomach knots — that's not a rational answer, and it feels dangerous. I tell him he shouldn't. He says it's too late.

Neither of us moves. The air between us feels loaded with everything unspoken. I tell him to go back inside, to forget this, forget me. He lets out something close to a laugh, asking if I really think that's possible. I tell him to try. He refuses outright.

I warn him I'm not someone worth getting involved with. He counters that I'm not someone he's walking away from. My heart stutters — why is he doing this? I push back, saying my life isn't safe. Something shifts in his expression, and he offers to change that.

The offer hits too fast, too much. I say he can't. He challenges me to try him. I step back again, panic rising, telling him he doesn't understand what he'd be dealing with. He asks me to explain. I can't — my voice breaks louder than I mean it to. Fear grips my chest; if I say too much, if I let him close, everything could collapse.

I beg him to stop. He doesn't move, doesn't speak, just watches, patient, like he has unlimited time — and that patience cracks something open in me. A small, desperate part of me wants to tell him everything, wants to believe him, wants to feel safe again.

I whisper that I'm not worth this. His eyes sharpen — he tells me not to make that call for him. I say I already have, and turn to leave before I lose my resolve entirely.

I barely get two steps before his hand catches my wrist — not rough, just firm enough to stop me. I go still, asking him to let me go. He says not yet. I insist I don't need this; he insists I do.

I spin back around, frustration boiling over, snapping that he knows nothing about me, nothing about what I've survived. He simply says: then tell me. I say I can't. He asks why.

And there it is — I have an answer, and it terrifies me. My voice cracks as tears blur my sight, admitting that if I told him, he'd never look at me the same way again.

Silence. Then, quietly and steadily, he says: try me.

For one unbearable second, I almost do. I almost break and tell him everything.

Then headlights flare at the end of the street — a car, achingly familiar. Cold dread floods through me. I breathe out a broken "no." He notices immediately, asking what's wrong. I shake my head, panic mounting, and tell him he needs to leave. He refuses.

The car accelerates toward us, too fast, too deliberate — coming straight for me. He says my name, stepping closer. I yank my wrist free, screaming at him to leave. The car screeches to a halt just meters away, doors slamming open, and my heart plummets.

"They found me," I breathe.

Heavy footsteps close in. I stumble backward, fear swallowing me whole — and for the first time, I'm not sure who terrifies me more: them, or the fact that he's still standing there, refusing to leave.