I can’t tell if it’s the adrenaline coursing through me or the way his dark eyes hold mine, as if he’s searching for something he’s terrified to find.
“Try,” I say again, my voice shaky. It’s a plea, a desperate attempt to save this. Save us. Whatever we are, I know it’s worth saving.
I don’t know what thoughts are swirling behind those dark eyes, what decisions they’re weighing, what explanation he’s trying to weave into coherent words. All I know is that — whatever it is, I’ll take it. God, I hate him for making me feel like this — so exposed, so vulnerable. But I hate myself more for still wanting him, for needing him, even now.
And when his eyes return to me it’s all I can do to not run to him and wrap my arms around him. A part of my brain tries to remind me of the way he dismisse
