Page 97 of Choke

He pauses, then adds, “I can open it without your permission.”

Fucking hell. I forgot to change the lock.

My shoulders sag as I reach for the lock. I step back. The knob turns. The door creaks open. His eyes crawl up my body, stopping on my face. I can see the judgment; I know how I look, and the shame of it has me wrapping my arms around myself. His eyes shift, looking around my apartment, which is in ruins. The dishes in the sink are piled high, and takeout containers of barely touched food and dirty work clothes are scattered around—signs of my unraveling.

He sighs, turning back to me and taking a step forward. Instinctively, I flinch and step back. My chest tightens, and my breath seems to evade me as I feel myself dissolving, the first tear trailing down my cheek. He doesn’t stop; he takes slow, methodical steps, his hands raised like I’m supposed to believe he’s safe. I know better and continue to move backward, trying to keep my distance. When my back hits the wall, my knees start to crumble. Tears fall harder, and he closes the distance in two steps, catching me as I begin to sink.

His strong arms wrap around me, pulling me into his chest. The smokey smell consumes me, and I let myself fall apart, weeping into his chest. He’s silent, unmoving. I can feel my lungs struggle to breathe.

Focus on what you can feel.

The heat of his arms.

The steady rhythm of his heart.

The way his chest rises and falls.

“Lex,” His voice is soft, a tone I’ve never heard.

“You have to take care of yourself.”

He has no idea. He comes around uninvited and judges me for my place being a bit messy. I put both hands on his chest and push him back. He’s big enough to fight me if he wants to, but he takes two steps back, giving me enough space to see him. I’m so fucking tired, but I refuse to hear that condescending tone.

“Fuck you, Adrian.”

“Gladly.” The softness fading from his tone.

His gaze shifts around my place again; it makes me feel so vulnerable, seeing it like this.

“This isn’t you.” He says.

I scoff, replying, “Because you know me so well.”

He’s right, I know he is, but…

“I could help.” It doesn’t sound like an offer as much as a demand.

I need help.

“I don’t fucking need you.” My tone is laced with ire.

Liar.

He tilts his head slightly, his warm eyes crinkling with the grin that spreads across his face as if he sees right through the lie. He pushes his hands into his pockets.

“We both know that’s not true. You need me like you need oxygen.”

I want to argue, to fight.

“You need me as much as I need you.”

I freeze at that comment.What?

“I brought you something.”

Internally, I panic. The last time he came here and brought me something, he restrained me, presented me with the option of sex toys, and left me feeling on the brink of detonation. This time, he pulls his hand out of his pocket, a small velvet box in it. My heart skips.

Stepping forward, he opens the box. Inside is a small ring, a twisted golden band of thorns. I look at it, up to his face, then back to the ring. Then I start to laugh. The sound is hollow and humorless. His expression stays flat, and I laugh harder. I double over, hands on my knees, laughter breaking out between the tears. It’s wild. Unhinged. The kind that doesn’t sound like joy at all.

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