Page 136 of Reckless Obsession

My heart is beating too fast, but beneath it there’s a separate ache—a tightening, cautious thing that remembers every time he left me alone with questions I was too proud to ask. Every time he made me feel wanted in the dark and disposable by morning.

“Tristan—”

“I don’t know when I started having feelings for you, Maksim,” he continues, quieter now. “But after that night two years ago, you’ve been the only person in my head. You’ve been stuck there.”

My pulse races so hard it feels painful.

This has to be my mind twisting his words into something they aren’t. It has to be. Because Tristan doesn’t say things like this. He leaves, he shuts down, he does not sit across a fire from me and tell me I’ve lived in his head for two years.

“Is this—” My voice breaks, and I hate it. I clear my throat, forcing the words out. “Is this supposed to be a confession?”

His eyes flicker. Not away, never away, but something in them gives.

“I don’t know what it’s supposed to be,” he admits. “I just know I’m tired of pretending it isn’t there.”

That should make me feel lighter.

Instead, fear coils tighter around my ribs. I don’t know why my heart is suddenly scared.

“I want you, Maksim,” he says, his voice low and rough around the edges, his eyes locked on mine like a cage. “I want you so bad, but I don’t know how to have you.”

Something inside me folds in on itself.

Not because it isn’t what I’ve wanted to hear.

Because it is.

Because those words are too close to every stupid fantasy I built around him when I was younger, back when I still believed wanting someone hard enough could make them want me back. Back when I thought if I waited long enough, if I was funny enough, loud enough, yearned enough, useful enough, Tristan would eventually look at me.

The warmth of the fire suddenly feels suffocating.

My hands are shaking before I even realize I am standing up.

“I need a break.”

The words come out clipped and hollow. I don’t look at him. I can’t. I walk towards the cabin fast, as if putting distance between us will somehow slow whatever is happening in my chest.

I don’t make it far.

I’m barely past the threshold, barely into the dim living room, when I hear the door shut behind me and his footsteps close in.

“Maksim.” His hand catches my arm. “What’s wrong? Talk to me.”

“Let go.”

“Maksim—”

“I said let go!” I wrench myself free, shoving him back a step. “Fuck off, Tristan. Just—fuck off.”

He doesn’t fuck off. Of course he doesn’t. He just stands there, hands raised slightly, watching me like I’m something that might shatter if he moves too fast.

Which, honestly, is accurate.

“You don’t get to do this,” I say, my voice climbing, unsteady. “You don’t get to say all that after two years of nothing. Two years, Tristan. You disappeared. You let me think I’d made it all up in my head. And now you’re standing there, telling me you want me.”

“You’re not letting me explain—”

“This has to be pity.” I say, cutting him off. “You saw me fall apart at your parents’ house, saw me have a full breakdown on their floor, and now you feel sorry for me. That’s it, isn’t it? You feel guilty so you’re throwing me scraps of affection to make yourself feel better.”