Page 64 of Blades Out
Only her.
Only Olivia.
I pressed the heels of my palms against my eyes until colors burst behind my lids.
You're too old for her.
Fifteen years. A lifetime of damage she hadn't lived through yet. Scars she didn't carry. I'd seen things, done things, survived things that would break someone like her.
She was still learning how to feel safe in her own skin.
And I wanted to touch it.
She's vulnerable. You should stay away.
I knew that. God, I knew that.
She needed stability. Protection. Someone steady who wouldn't blur lines or make her question what safety meant. Someone who wouldn't look at her and feel desire twisting up with protectiveness until he couldn't tell them apart.
I was the worst possible person for her.
The water ran lukewarm now, losing heat. I didn't move.
You will stay away.
I said it out loud. Quiet. Firm. A vow I needed to hear in my own voice.
"You will stay away."
The words echoed in the tiled space, bouncing back at me like an accusation.
I wanted them to be true. Wanted to believe I had enough control left to do the right thing. To keep my distance. To stop noticing the way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was nervous or how her shoulders relaxed when I spoke to her in that low, careful tone. Wanted to believe I wouldn't find excuses to be near her.
But deep down—in the part of myself I couldn't lie to—I knew better.
I'd go back to that café. I'd look for her in the halls, in the stands, in every corner of that arena until I found her. I'd invent reasons. Justify it. Tell myself I was just checking in, just making sure she was safe, just being professional.
And I'd hate myself for every single one.
Because the truth was simpler and uglier than any excuse I could build. I didn't want to stay away.
I wanted her to look at me the way she had tonight—soft and trusting and unafraid—and I wanted to be the kind of man who deserved it.
But I wasn't.
And that wouldn't stop me.
I forced myself out of the shower before the water turned cold again. Grabbed a towel. Dried off mechanically—arms, chest, legs. Didn't look at the mirror. Couldn't stomach my own reflection right now.
The pajama pants were where I'd left them, folded on the edge of the sink. Black. Soft from too many washes. I pulled them on and left the bathroom, flicking the light off behind me.
The bedroom waited. Dark. Silent. Empty.
I should've felt relief stepping into it. This was my space. Controlled. Safe. Nothing here that could hurt me or make me feel things I didn't want to feel.
But tonight it felt wrong. Too quiet. Too cold.
I crossed to the bed and sat on the edge, elbows on my knees, head hanging. My hair dripped onto the hardwood—small dark spots spreading in the dim light from the window.
