Alpha Mate at the Gas Station

Chapter 14: eyes speaking

The moment I finished signing, Sabrina gently took the contract from my hands, her fingers warm, steady—too steady for the storm unraveling inside me.

“Thumper,” she said softly, folding the papers with care, “you need to stop for a moment and really think clearly. Because right now, you’re lying to yourself about how things truly are.”

Her words didn’t come as an attack. They came like concern. Like someone speaking to a wounded animal that didn’t realize how badly it was bleeding.

“I’m not a psychologist,” she continued, her voice calm but firm, “but what I see is someone stuck in trauma that’s slowly killing her. And I don’t want you waking up in a hospital again because you’re punishing yourself for surviving. Please—don’t keep doing this. Seek help. Live the life you’re still here to live.”

I swallowed hard.

“Dominic is not your ex-husband,” she added gently. “He isn’t going to repeat that cycle. He’s Dominic. And that matters.”

She paused, watching my face closely, as if gauging how much truth I could handle.

“I’m going to make copies of this agreement so you have your own. But I need a promise from you.” Her eyes locked on mine. “Promise me you’ll work on you. Not this obsession with overworking, with paying off imaginary debts to people who never asked for repayment.”

Her words tightened something in my chest.

“You don’t owe me. Dominic doesn’t owe me. And whoever that man was who paid your debt—he didn’t ask for anything in return. He hasn’t contacted you demanding payment, has he?”

The question made my pulse spike.

“No,” I said quietly. “He… he only sent people. Said I could contact him if I wanted.”

Before Sabrina could respond, Dominic interrupted us.

“I’m sorry to cut in,” he said, his voice lower than usual, strained in a way I hadn’t heard before. “But I need to be somewhere—with Bunny.”

That alone made me look up.

Dominic wasn’t meeting my eyes.

The man who was always so direct, so unshakable, now scratched the back of his neck like he didn’t quite know what to do with his hands. His posture was rigid, controlled—but his avoidance screamed louder than words.

Confusion washed over me.

Sabrina turned to him, and he signed the contract quickly, flashing a smile that felt… rehearsed.

Too polished.

Too familiar.

It was the same smile my ex-husband used to wear when he’d already won. When decisions had been made without me, and all that was left was for me to accept them.

And just like that—

Every fear I’d worked so hard to bury came rushing back.

I got up and walked over to Sabrina as she said her goodbyes to both of us, her voice polite, her smile careful, as if she knew this wasn’t a moment to linger.

When she left, the space felt heavier.

Leaving was the only thing left to do, yet it was the one thing I didn’t feel ready for. I wasn’t hungry. I wasn’t tired. And yet I felt exhausted in a way that lived deep in my bones. My body felt awake, alert—too alert—while my mind spun in circles, unable to land on what I wanted or what I was supposed to feel.

Anxiety pressed against my ribs like it needed more room to breathe.

Dominic walked ahead of me and opened the car door, every bit the gentleman anyone looking from the outside would admire. The gesture was kind. Thoughtful.

And it made my chest tighten.

Before I could step in, I placed my hand flat against the door and spoke, my voice firm despite the tremor under it.

“I can handle this. You can go ahead and take the driver’s seat.”

He paused, his expression shifting—confusion first, then something closer to irritation. He didn’t understand why it mattered.

But I did.

My ex-husband used to do the same thing. Open the door, stand there waiting—impatient. If I wasn’t fast enough, if I didn’t move exactly when he expected, he’d slam it shut without checking if I was clear.

Once my hair got caught.

Twice it was my fingers.

Each time I cried out, shocked more than hurt, and each time he snapped at me for not being quicker. For inconveniencing him. For existing too slowly.

That memory lived in my muscles now, not my mind. It surfaced before I could stop it, tightening my grip on the door, making my heart pound like I was bracing for impact that wasn’t coming.

Dominic wasn’t him.

I knew that.

But my body didn’t.

And if there was one man in this world I never wanted to owe a single thing to—as long as I lived—it was my ex-husband. Not patience. Not obedience. Not silence.

Not ever again.

I knew I had to rid myself of the man I had finally divorced—not just from my thoughts, but from the places he had carved himself into without permission when we were together. From the memories lodged in my muscles. From the reflexes my body still obeyed even when my mind screamed that it was over.

I hated admitting that my subconscious wasn’t ready to let go. That it still clung to the ghost of someone I once believed was the one. Love doesn’t always leave cleanly. Sometimes it rots where it’s buried.

I took my seat and adjusted myself, slow and deliberate, as if every movement mattered. Dominic was already in the driver’s seat, waiting. Not rushing. Not sighing. Just… waiting.

That patience scared me more than impatience ever had.

I hated thinking this calm might only be temporary. That it was a beginning phase. That one day it would erode the way it did before, turning into expectation, then irritation, then punishment.

Once I was settled, Dominic finally spoke, his voice low and careful, like he was stepping onto thin ice.

“Are you feeling alright?” he asked. “If you don’t feel well, we can go home instead. We can just stay in, take the day slow. I don’t want you to feel cornered.”

He paused, glancing at me—not staring, not demanding—just checking.

“I also know you need space to breathe. I thought about this carefully, but I know you have a voice. I don’t want to make decisions over you. So please… tell me what you really feel.”

Every word was respectful. Thoughtful. Almost rehearsed in its kindness.

And that’s what made my stomach twist.

Because it sounded right. Too right. Like the kind of thing a man says when he’s learned what to say, not necessarily what to mean.

It felt like a trap—not because of anything he had done, but because my heart didn’t know how to trust gentleness without waiting for the cost.

Knowing he was waiting for my answer, all I could do was clasp my hands together, fingers locking so tightly they ached. My thoughts tangled over themselves as I tried to find the right words—words that wouldn’t expose how fragile I felt, how close I was to breaking under the weight of everything I hadn’t processed yet.

Before I could force anything out, Dominic reached over and gently pressed his fingers against my thigh.

Not demanding. Not claiming.

Just enough to anchor me.

The touch made me look at him, and when our eyes met, something in his expression shifted. The tension in his jaw eased, his gaze softening—not with pity, not with frustration, but with recognition.

He saw it.

The fear I couldn’t name.

The exhaustion I couldn’t admit.

The walls I didn’t know how to lower without collapsing.

For the first time since I’d sat down, I realized I didn’t actually have to explain myself.

He already understood what I couldn’t say.