Page 85 of The Misfit

“Salem,” he starts, taking another step forward.

Suddenly, I can’t breathe. My brain short-circuits.

Can’t do anything except count the drops of water falling from his clothes.

One heartbeat of silence.

Two steps between us.

Three seconds before everything changes.

“I can’t pretend anymore.” Lee’s voice breaks on the words, raw and honest in a way that makes my chest ache. “I can’t … I don’t know how to keep acting like this is fake when everything about you feels real. I told you at the gala I want you to be mine. And I meant it.”

Water drips steadily from his clothes, creating patterns on the hardwood floor. I should be panicking about the mess, should be counting the drops, should be reaching for cleaning supplies. Instead, I can’t tear my eyes away from his face.

“Say something,” he pleads. “Count something. Clean something. Just … don’t disappear again.”

Noah knocks something off a shelf upstairs, but all I can focus on is the desperation clinging to every single one of Lee’s words. All I can see is the way his hands shake—not from bourbon this time, but from something deeper, more terrifying.

“Three feet,” I whisper.

His brow furrows. “What?”

“That’s the distance I keep between myself and everyone else. My safety bubble. My careful measure of space.” I take a shaky breath. “Except with you. With you, I forget to count the distance. Forget to measure the space. Forget to be afraid.”

Lightning illuminates his face, showing me everything he’s trying to hide. The hope. The fear. The raw need that mirrors my own.

“Salem—”

“I’m still counting,” I cut him off. “Still cleaning. Still broken in all these ways that your family hates. That society doesn’t understand. In ways that make me unsuitable for your world.”

“I don’t want suitable.” He takes another step forward, water trailing in his wake. “I don’t want perfect. I want you. With your gloves and your counting and your perfectly aligned textbooks. I want …”

Thunder cracks overhead, swallowing his next words. But I see them in his eyes. Feel them in the way he’s looking at me, like I’m something precious and terrifying all at once.

“Lee,” I breathe his name like a prayer, like a warning, like everything I can’t say.

The storm rages.

The power flickers.

Neither of us moves. Neither of us speaks. Neither of us pretends this is still just an arrangement.

Instead, we stand there in my foyer, both soaking wet, both trembling, both knowing that whatever happens next will change everything.

TWENTY

lee

Water drips steadilyfrom my clothes, creating patterns on Salem’s pristine floor. I should move, step back, do something besides stare at her like a drowning man who’s finally found air. But I can’t seem to make my body cooperate.

“I’ll get more towels,” Noah announces from somewhere behind us. “And then I’m going to bed. Where I will be sleeping. With headphones on.”

Salem’s cheeks flush pink. “Noah?—”

“Nope. Don’t need to hear it. Just …” He appears briefly in my peripheral vision, dropping towels on a chair. “Try not to flood the house. Mom will notice.”

Then he’s gone, taking the stairs two at a time, leaving us alone with nothing but the sound of the storm and unspoken words between us.

---