She’d never wanted to strangle anyone as much as she wanted to strangle a stranger named Pippa right now.

“Just wait,” she said. “I’ll show you.” She bent over the coffee table, rifling through rubble and paper and countless notebooks, searching for the notebook, the one that would fix everything.

He heaved out a breath. Made a sound like cracking glass that might have been a laugh—a broken, broken laugh. “Yeah, I bet. You’ll search for some kind of evidence that’ll prove you aren’t a manipulative, lying user, only you won’t be able to find it. But oh, shit, if only you could. Right?” He didn’t sound angry anymore. He sounded tired. Bone-deep, dog tired. “Just stop, Chlo. You got me. It’s done. So tick me off the list and I’ll pretend I never fucking met you. Good riddance.” He turned and strode out of the room.

No, no, no.

She stood for a moment, stricken, unable to speak, or think properly, or even take a decent breath. Those words whipped at her heart and carved deeper lacerations than they should. She tried to remind herself that it was all a misunderstanding, that this was what Dani would call him being triggered.

But her demons howled louder: He’s leaving you.

Once upon a time, Chloe had promised herself that she would never chase anyone who wanted to leave. She would never allow abandonment, desperation, love to make a fool of her. But her feet moved without permission, slowly at first, then faster, until she was stumbling over stray boxes and leaning against the walls for balance, righting herself with vicious determination. By the time she caught him, he was standing in the open doorway, his back to her. On the threshold.

Wasn’t this always how it ended?

But he didn’t move. He didn’t take the last step. His muscles were tense, as if frozen. He seemed to vibrate with something that might have been rage or regret or indecision.

Hope flared inside her, sharp and dangerous and impossible to resist. “Trust me. Just trust me.”

He didn’t turn around. “I don’t think I can.”

She clamped her molars together so hard, she swore she heard one crack. A lump of painful pride, acid and sawdust and heavy concrete, formed at the back of her throat. Chloe tried to swallow it and failed. She tried to believe he wouldn’t do this—wouldn’t walk out on her just like that, wouldn’t refuse to hear her out for even a second—and failed.

When she spoke again, her voice was panicked and fearful and she hated herself for it. No. No. She hated him for it, hated him for proving her every anxiety right. Surely he wouldn’t prove them right. “Red. Don’t.”

Silence. Silence that burned.

“If you can leave this easily,” she said, desperate, “don’t fucking come back.”

The slam of the door shook her bones.

She broke.

As soon as Red stepped out into the corridor, something forced his mind back into his body. For the last ten minutes he’d been distant, detached, floating above himself like a ghost. Watching himself lose it. Feeling the echo of his own pain as if it belonged to someone else. Now he felt it firsthand, as if God had just punched him in the gut.

The walls of Chloe’s flat had been slowly closing in, her beautiful, heartbroken gaze had suffocated him, but now he was out and free and drained and weak. He leaned back against her door, unable to take another step, and sank slowly to the floor. His world was a haze of bright white melting into blood red, but when he pressed his palms flat against the cold linoleum, the shock of it helped him focus. His mouth was numb, as if it belonged to someone else. His tongue tasted coppery, like blood. His skin was sweat-soaked and clammy and he hadn’t even noticed.

He was afraid. He realized it all at once, both surprised and resigned. He was afraid, and it made him angry, like a rabid fucking animal gnawing at its own trapped foot. But the thought was jarring, and he found himself frowning, correcting the negativity. I am not an animal. Then he said it aloud, because Dr. Maddox was always harping on about mindfulness and mantras. “I am not an animal,” he whispered, his voice disappearing like smoke. “I am not an animal.”

What came next? He told himself positive things, and he … he found something to focus on. That was it. Red chose the first thing his eyes fell on: the door to the flat opposite Chloe’s, which had a scuff mark he’d need to paint over. Yeah. He stared at the black mark against the red wood and repeated his words like a prayer. That door better not fucking open, because he was in no shape to talk to tenants right now. Or to anyone. He sat with himself for a while.

“Okay,” he finally murmured. “Okay, Red. What just happened?”

Chloe had manipulated him, that was what. She’d manipulated him just like Pippa had. Except the thought that had seemed so reasonable five minutes ago now felt absolutely ridiculous, because Chloe was nothing like Pippa. And he knew that belief was his own, because he’d thought it a thousand times before. This wasn’t like his last relationship. No one was messing with his head.

The iron band around his chest eased a bit.

He cradled his right hand in his left and rubbed his aching scar. His head ached, too. Words settled in his mind like barbed wire, ripping into everything they touched. I’ll pretend I never fucking met you. Good riddance.

He’d said that. It already felt like a dream, or a nightmare, but no—it had been him. The words had felt wrong in his mouth and they felt wrong in his memory. Then they swirled, twisted, transformed. He heard Chloe as if for the first time: I put you on the list because you’re important.

When she’d told him that, it had sounded like bullshit. Like the kind of nonsensical excuse Pippa always managed to dredge up, except Chloe wasn’t Pippa Chloe wasn’t Pippa Chloe wasn’t Pippa—and she’d told him it was a misunderstanding. Not like, You’re too stupid to understand, even if he’d heard it that way at the time. No; she’d been begging him to give her a fucking chance. She’d told him to wait. She might have told him the truth. And he’d left. He’d treated her like shit and he’d left.

He let his head fall back to hit the door. Fuck, fuck, fuck. “Chloe?” he called, his voice hoarse, his hands twisting nervously together.

There was a pause that lasted a lifetime. Then her voice came through the door, thick with tears. “What do you want?”

His heart broke. It just fucking broke. How could he ever have thought that she would—? But he remembered exactly how. Remembered the desperate grip of panic that had choked his logical thoughts and dredged up remembered, toxic emotions. Now he just had to explain it to her, had to fix his monumental fuck-up.

Because whatever he’d overheard, whatever he’d believed, he knew Chloe wasn’t using him. He knew.

“Shit,” he said. Then, because it made him feel slightly better, he said it again. “Shit. I’m sorry, Button. I—I lost it.”

He heard some faint sniffing, but her voice came back stronger this time, threaded with iron. “I noticed.”

“Oh my God, Chlo. I’m a dick. I’m such a dick.”

“Yes, you fucking are.”

The fact that she was even talking to him filled him with hope. Golden and glowing, it sloshed uneasily in his stomach, mixing with the bitter aftertaste of his fear. He felt nauseous. Ignored it. “Can I come in? Can we talk?”