Page 23 of The Assist
I shoot him a look. “I don’t light up.”
“You absolutely do. Like a fucking Christmas tree.”
I groan. “It’s complicated.”
Murphy shrugs. “Feelings usually are.”
I fall silent for a moment, then say, “She makes me feel seen. Like I’m not some headline. But then I pull back, because I don’t know how to let someone see me without seeing all the shit underneath.”
Murphy’s quiet for a beat, then says, “Maybe she already does. And she’s still here.”
That thought lands heavy. Because maybe she does see it. And maybe she hasn’t run yet. But how long before she does?
“Do me a favour,” Murphy says, nudging my arm. “Don’t screw this up just because you’re scared.”
I nod again, more certain this time. Because perhaps I am scared. But maybe I’m done running.
That night, I find myself back outside the clinic. Lights are off and the windows dark.
I don’t know what I’m doing here. I should be at home, sleeping. I should be doing literally anything else but standing here like some lovesick idiot.
But I’m not. I’m here. Because I can’t stop thinking about the way she looked at me today. Like she saw every crack in me and didn’t flinch.
I pull out my phone. Type a message. Delete it. Try again.
Dylan: You were right. I’m scared.
Three dots appear almost instantly.
Mia: I know.
And then another message.
Mia: You don’t have to be.
I stare at the screen, my heart thudding. I want to see her. Talk to her. Hell, I want to be near her in any way I can.
But instead, I slide the phone back into my pocket and head home in the quiet night, her words echoing in my head.
You don’t have to be.
Maybe it’s not a cure. But it’s a start.
And for the first time in a long time, that feels like enough.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MIA
It’s almost midnight when I see the message.
I should be asleep. I’ve got an early session tomorrow, a pile of paperwork I’ve been ignoring, and a fridge that only contains oat milk and disappointment. But none of that matters when I see his name light up my screen.
Dylan: You were right. I’m scared.
My breath catches in my throat, and I hover over the keyboard, unsure if I should be getting into this with him.
Not because I didn’t expect him to admit it, I’ve seen it in his eyes for weeks now, but because he actually said it. Typed it out and sent it to me. That means something. It has to.
