DAMON’S POV “And what did it become about?” she asks. There it is. The question I’ve been circling like a wounded animal avoiding open ground. I exhale through my nose. “Nothing.” Even I hear the hollowness in it. Michaela lets out a short, unimpressed breath. “That’s a lie.” I finally look at her. Mistake. She’s not waiting anymore. She’s reading me now, like that would give her everything I’m withholding. “Honest answers,” she reminds me. I look away again, toward the dark edge of the trees beyond the firelight. The night there is thicker than ink, swallowing sound, swallowing excuses. “Not nothing,” I correct quietly. A pause stretches. Even the air feels like it tightens with it. “Just… not something I was ready to acknowledge.” The wind shifts through the trees behind us, dragging leaves in a low, restless whisper. Somewhere far off, water moves over stone—steady and indifferent. “You’re doing that thing again,” she says. “What thing?” “Where you talk like yo
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