Page 179 of Ruin My Life
Brie
ISINK INTO THE BATHWATER UNTIL IT LAPSjust beneath my chin. Damon added more hot water and bubbles before I got in, but it’s lukewarm now, the bubbles long dissolved into a thin, ghostly film on the surface.
Still, the scent of lavender lingers faintly in the air.
For thirty minutes, I’ve been floating in that tenderness, letting it soften my spine and quiet the static in my mind.
But the silence is fading now. The stillness turning sharp.
Because the second I step out of this tub, I have a choice to make.
Stay, or go.
It’s not a new question by any means. I’ve made a habit of running whenever people get too close. I switch coffee shops whenever the barista starts to recognize my order, take different routes to the grocery store so I won’t pass by the same people walking their dogs.
I reroute my life in loops and spirals, like a ghost avoiding all contact.
Never lingering. Never known.
I guess there was never really a reason for it—just a low hum of instinct and a sense of security.A belief that people can’t hurt you if they don’t know who you are.
That’s always been the rule.
And Damon...
Damon knows too much. More than anyone.
So the urge to run is almost automatic.
But what unsettles me now—what makes my throat tighten and my breath catch—is that part of me knows he’d find me even if I did.
I guess the real question is…
Would Iwanthim to?
And I think I already know the answer to that.
I rise from the bath slowly, water sloshing against porcelain as I reach for the towel hanging on the rack. It’s soft and still warm from the room’s humidity, and I wrap it around myself as I step out onto the blue bathmat.
I dry off as best as I can, wringing out my hair until it stops dripping, then grab my T-shirt off the floor and pull it on over damp skin. It clings to me as I move—but for the first time, it doesn’t feel as constricting.
Once I toss the towel into the hamper, I gather the rest of my clothes into my arms, hold them to my chest like a shield, and take a long, grounding breath…
Then, I open the door into Damon’s room.
His room’s layout is a mirror of the one I’ve been staying in—a queen-sized bed, two matching end tables, and a tall wardrobe—but the energy is entirely different. The wood is darker. Rich mahogany instead of soft birch. His linens are navy, not pastel. It smells like cedar and clean cotton—and a little like him.
Across from the bed, floor-to-ceiling glass doors open out to the deck that wraps around the house and connects to my room next door.
An easy escape route.
That’s what I would have seen it as before.
He’s already in bed, lounging above the covers, his back propped against a pillow as he scrolls through his phone. But the moment I step into the room, his head lifts.
His gaze skims over me with heat—slow, deliberate—like he’s memorizing every inch of my body that my damp T-shirt outlines.
But all he says is, “How was your bath?”
