Page 76 of The Assist
She hesitates again, then nods, like it takes effort. “Yeah. That’d be good.”
I follow her tail lights through the half-empty streets, trying to ignore the rising churn in my gut. Something’s off, and I don’t know how to fix it without making her run.
When we pull into her street, she gets out quickly, unlocking her door with shaking fingers. I’m right behind her after parking my car and locking it up.
Inside, it’s warm and low-lit, like always. The smell of her wraps around me like a vice. But she doesn’t head straight for the kitchen or offer me tea like usual. She stops in the middle of the living room, arms folded across her chest, staring at the floor like it holds answers.
“Mia.”
She blinks slowly. “Sorry.”
I step forward and gently take the bag from her shoulder, setting it down on the sofa. “Talk to me.”
For a second, I think she won’t. Then she exhales, long and uneven, and finally looks up at me. “It’s my dad,” she says quietly. “My mum messaged. Said he’s been confused again. Badly. She thinks it might be time to talk about... next steps.”
Next steps.
I’ve never hated two words more in my life.
I reach for her hand. “Shit. I’m sorry.”
She doesn’t cry. She just swallows hard, nodding like she’s trying to keep everything inside. “He has these days where he doesn’t know who she is,” she says, voice cracking. “Last week he thought she was his sister. The week before that, he forgot where he lived. He just he fades in and out. And I keep thinking if I’m there more, maybe I can slow it down. Maybe I can... I don’t know. Undo it.”
“You can’t,” I say, softly. “I wish you could. But it’s not on you.”
She shakes her head like she’s trying to shake me off. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Not tonight.”
And I get it. I do. But I’m not walking away. I take her face gently in my hands, tilting her chin until she looks at me. Her eyes are shining and tired and guarded.
“You don’t have to say anything,” I tell her. “But I’m not going anywhere.”
She watches me for a beat. Then another. And then she steps into me.
It’s not a kiss, not at first. It’s a lean, a press of her forehead to my shoulder, her fingers curling into my shirt like she needs something to hold on to. I wrap my arms around her, I can feel the slight tremble in her body, and I press my mouth to her temple.
Her voice is small. “I’m scared.”
“I know.”
“Not just about him. About this. You and me. I don’t know what I’m doing. I know what I want but I have no idea what we’redoing.”
I smile, though it hurts a little. “Yeah. Me neither.”
We stay like that for a minute or two.
And then she lifts her head. Her eyes lock on mine. And she kisses me.
It’s not gentle.
It’s not careful.
It’s teeth and need and heat and the kind of desperation that comes from holding too much in for too long. Her hands fist in my shirt, dragging me closer, and I go willingly, my heart thudding like a drum.
I walk her back toward the wall, my mouth hungry against hers, hands tracing the line of her waist, the curve of her hips. She gasps into my mouth, tilting her head, letting me deepen the kiss until we’re both breathless.
When I pull back, her cheeks are flushed, lips kiss-swollen, and I’ve never wanted anything so badly.
“I need you,” I say, roughly.
