I was wearing the dress.Thedress. The very same gown he'd helped take off that night.
Of course he knew.
A chill sliced through my veins, my legs incapable of moving, let alone walking.
"Astrid," he said again when he reached me, standing in front of me, his eyes burning into me like he could see straight into the depths of my soul. "I am so sorry. So fucking sorry."
I stepped backward, stumbling a little in my shock. Those were the last words I expected to hear from him.
Faster than I could blink, his hands reached out to steady me, grabbing onto me, then sweeping me up into his arms like I weighed nothing.
What the fuck?What the actual fuck?
"What are you doing?" I gasped, my arms instinctively wrapping around his neck.Not because I wanted to. Just pure survival reflex.
A truck barreled in right then, headlights lighting up the space, and I realized he'd swept me right out of the danger zone and straight into the safety of his strong body, his strides long and sure as he carried me quickly out of the loading area, away from the sudden chaos.
He didn't stop at the sidewalk though. He kept going, striding around the corner of the building, through a battered metal door marked STAFF ONLY, shouldering it open without hesitation.
What was happening to me right now?
I looked around at what looked like an unused backstage hallway, cases of water bottles against one wall, plus a bunch of folding chairs stacked in neat rows.
Setting me down carefully, he eyed me for a moment, probably making sure I wouldn't fall in these sky-high heels. Which I didn't. Thank you very much.
"Sorry I had to grab you like that," he said, his voice low and ragged. "Are you okay?"
Was I okay?
Hell no. Not even close.
His gaze darted around my face, which had to be ghostly pale, and then he grabbed two chairs, setting one behind me and gesturing for me to take a seat, before doing the same in the chair across from me.
I stared at him in the dim lighting, something about the set-up very similar to a movie or show where someone was about to get interrogated in a back room.
Despite the hammering of my heart, I realized I wasn't scared of him in that way. Even though he'd been the brains behind the biggest humiliation of my life, I instinctively knew I was at least physically safe at the moment.
My heart though? My emotions? My mental health?
They were sure to take the beating of a lifetime.
"I know you're busy," he began, his eyes still boring into me, "and you probably have someplace to be right now. But... but... I just had to see you."
With one last gasp of hope that he hadn't put it all together, I found my voice. "Why?"
Cringing, I waited for his answer as he leaned forward, a look on his face I'd never seen before, not in high school and not recently.
It was concern, regret, and pure agony all rolled into one.
Oh, he definitely knew. And that was the absolute end of my delusion.
He broke eye contact briefly, glancing down at the concrete floor, before his intense gaze swept my features. Scrubbing ahand down his face, he sighed deeply, like he carried all the world's problems on his shoulders.
And then he said something I would have never expected.
"Why haven't you slapped me yet?" he rasped. "Why haven't you told me to fuck off and get the hell out of here?"
"What?" I gasped.
