The Runaround

Chapter Two: The Game we always play

Chapter Two: The Game We Always Play

The weight of his gaze lingered on her skin long after he sat beside her. It wasn’t casual. It wasn’t safe.

It was like he already knew her edges, the cracks she kept hidden. Like he knew how to press against them just enough to make her feel it.

Mariah swallowed, forcing herself to look away. "You said—every time. What does that mean?"

He rested his elbows on the counter, drumming his fingers slowly. "Exactly what it sounds like."

"That doesn't explain anything."

"It does if you stop pretending." He turned to her, his voice dipping lower, almost gentle. "You always forget. But I never do."

His calm unnerved her more than if he’d raised his voice. Calm was dangerous. Calm meant control.

"You’ve got the wrong girl." The words tasted hollow, even as she said them.

"No," he whispered, "you just keep trying to be the wrong girl."

Her stomach tightened. "What's your name?"

His lips curved, that half-smile again, sharp at the edges. "Still pretending?"

She braced herself, expecting a name, a lie, a threat. Anything. But instead, he said nothing.

Silence.

Complete.

Purposeful.

Like the answer was supposed to already be inside her.

Vince came by, his timing both perfect and intrusive. "You good, Mariah?"

She was supposed to say yes. Supposed to say she was fine.

But her pulse was ragged, her palms damp. The storm outside had softened to a drizzle, but inside her, something had just started. Something that had been waiting for her to stop running.

She hesitated. "Yeah… yeah, I’m fine."

Vince’s eyes flicked to the man beside her. "You want something to drink?"

"She’ll have whiskey. Straight. She always does." The man didn’t look away from her, didn’t wait for her agreement.

"And you?" Vince asked, his brow slightly furrowed.

"I’m not staying long." His voice was final, a full stop.

When Vince left, Mariah leaned in, her voice sharp now, her guard snapping back into place. "You don’t know me."

His dark eyes softened. "I always do."

"Then tell me something. Tell me who you are. Tell me how I know you."

His fingers traced the rim of her untouched glass. "You already know who I am. You just don’t want to remember. Because if you remember me—"

He leaned in so close she could feel the pull of him, like gravity itself had chosen sides.

"—you can’t keep running."

The clink of ice in another drink, the low hum of conversation behind them—it all faded.

Mariah’s breath caught. "Why would I run from you?"

His gaze darkened, something mournful glinting behind it. "Because I ruin you. Every time."

A chill danced up her spine.

"Every time we find each other, you fall. And every time, you run before you can fall too deep. It’s always the same." He finally pulled back, the distance between them cold and unbearable now. "I chase. You run. You beg me to find you. And I always do."

Her hands trembled against the countertop. She didn’t know this man. She was sure of it.

But somehow, she believed him.

"Why me?" she whispered.

"Because you’re mine." His voice was low, but the words wrapped around her like iron shackles.

He stood, his coat dripping water onto the cracked tiles. "You can run again, Mariah. You always do. But I’ll find you. I always do."

And with that, he was gone, swallowed by the rain-soaked streets.

Mariah sat frozen, the faint echo of his promise twisting inside her like a slow, tightening knot.

She wasn’t sure which terrified her more—the idea of running again.

Or the part of her that didn’t want to.