Page 26 of The Final Faceoff
Leif is watching me, his expression calm. Too calm. Like he just asked if I want Thai or Italian for dinner. Like this is normal. Like this is his, too.
And—I panic.
Because he can’t mean that. He can’t. This isn’t his responsibility. This isn’t his life imploding in real time. He has his own world, his own career, his own future that doesn’t involve getting tangled up in my mistakes.
I swallow hard, my brain screaming at me to fix this before it spirals out of control.
I shake my head, words scraping out of my throat. “Leif?—”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t look away. Just waits.
And that’s worse.
Because I know how to handle anger. I know how to handle judgment, disappointment, the awkward who’s-the-dad questions I’ll inevitably get from every nosy stranger. But this? This version of Leif—calm, my constant—looking at me like I’m not unraveling, like I’m not a disaster waiting to happen?
I don’t know what to do with that.
I shove up from the bed, moving like I can outrun this conversation, pacing toward the window. My fingers press against my forehead like I can physically shove the spiraling thoughts back inside.
“This isn’t—” I exhale, sharp, uneven. “You can leave, okay? It’s too complicated.”
A beat of silence.
Then he asks, “What’s complicated?”
I spin, exasperated. “This.” I wave a hand around my belly, the gesture as useless as I feel. “You don’t have to—step in. Fix things. Rearrange your life because the pill and a condom didn’t do their job. I’m the one who fucked up.”
He blinks, slow. “Who said anything about fucking up?”
I bark out a laugh—sharp, brittle. “Leif, come on.”
His jaw flexes, something shifting behind his expression. Something I don’t want to name.
“You really think that’s what I see when I look at you?”
The question slams into me, cracking something deep inside my chest.
I open my mouth—but nothing comes out.
Because I don’t know how to answer that. I don’t know how to explain the war happening inside my head.
So I do what I do best. I deflect.
I drag my hands through my hair, let out a breathy, forced laugh. “I mean, I knew you had a hero complex, but this is next-level,” I say, pushing lightness into my voice. “Do you ever just sit back and let people handle their own disasters?”
Silence.
Too much silence.
And when I turn, he’s not smiling. Not even a little.
Something tightens in my stomach.
He exhales, slow. “You really think I’m here because I feel obligated?”
I hesitate. “Aren’t you?”
His eyes flick over my face, searching for something I don’t want him to find.
