Page 111 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
And that’s when the panic sets in.
Because this isn’t supposed to be real. This is supposed to be a business arrangement with some convenient chemistry on the side. It’s not supposed to feel like this. Sometimes it’s like he’s seeing straight through all my carefully constructed walls to the messy, needy person underneath.
There’s a version of this where I lean in. I could kiss him back like I mean it. I could let myself want something more than just survival.
But that version of me? She doesn’t exist anymore. Five years of Patrick telling me I was too much, too ambitious, too everything kneecapped her. That version of me got suffocated by the realization that love is just another way to lose yourself.
Juliet Monroe doesn’t get to fall. She gets to win. Or she gets to disappear. Not this complicated… whatever this is between us.
I move away, to put some distance between us before I do something stupid like tell him how I really feel.
“I should...” I start, my voice clipped and shaky. “I should probably get some sleep.”
But Hunter catches my wrist before I can stand up completely.
“Don’t.”
I freeze, not sure what he’s asking.
“Don’t run,” he clarifies. “Not tonight.”
There’s something vulnerable in his voice, something that makes my chest tight. It seems like he’s asking for more than just my physical presence.
“Stay with me.”
Staring at him, my heart still pounding, my body hums from his touch. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know if staying would make this better or worse.
All I know is that I’m terrified of how good this felt and how much I want it to happen again. I’m scared shitless of how easy it would be to let myself believe this could be real.
“Hunter,” I whisper, but I still don’t know how to finish the sentence.
He doesn’t push or demand an explanation or try to convince me of anything. He just looks at me with those steady blue-gray eyes and waits for me to decide.
And for the first time in a long time, I don’t know what the smart choice is.
The safe choice would be to go to my room. Lock the door. Pretend this never happened and go back to treating this like the business arrangement it’s supposed to be.
But sitting here on this couch, looking at Hunter’s face in the blue glow of the TV, feeling the warmth of his hand still wrapped around my wrist, I’m not sure I want to be safe anymore.
I’m not sure I want to be smart.
Maybe I want to be reckless. Maybe I want to see what happens when I stop running from things that scare me.
“Okay,” I say finally, my voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll stay.”
Something shifts in his expression. Relief, maybe. Or gratitude. He doesn’t say a word. He just pulls me back down onto the couch next to him.
For a moment we sit in silence, the TV murmuring in the background. My heart’s still racing, but not from the kiss. From the way he’s still holding me, like the doesn’t plan to let go.
“I wasn’t supposed to be reckless,” I hear myself say, surprising us both. My voice is soft but steady. “Not growing up. My mom had this whole blueprint for me. Perfect posture, perfect grades, perfect internships. I was supposed to be polished and professional. Not loud. Not messy. Definitely not reckless.”
Hunter glances over, brows pulling together, but he doesn’t interrupt. He just waits.
“I tried,” I go on, my throat tightening. “God, I tried. But it was never enough. She’d always find something to criticize. My laugh was unprofessional. My hair wasn’t right. I wasn’t ambitious or cutthroat enough. I was never the daughter she wanted me to be.”
The words hang in the dim light between us. My throat aches. I rarely admit this to myself, much less anyone else.
Hunter’s jaw flexes. “Sounds like she’s the one who wasn’t enough. Not you.”
