I was left convinced I was the danger.
I moved on autopilot.
Bedroom. Bag. Shirt. Socks. Underwear. Toothbrush.
Fold. Stack. Zip.
Living room. Laptop. Charger.
Don’t think. Don’t feel.
Cameron’s sketchbook lay on the coffee table. I couldn’t touch it. I grabbed my notebook instead, tore a page from the back, and wrote three lines.
Each one was a lie.
I didn’t look at them again.
I put on my coat and walked out.
I didn’t look back, because if I did, I wouldn’t have had the strength to leave.
Max opened the door in socks and a T-shirt, took one look at me, and stepped aside without a word.
That alone nearly broke me.
I walked in, dropped my bag by the wall as if it weighed a hundred kilos, and stared at the floor.
When the door closed behind me, Max didn’t rush to fill the silence. He just leaned against it, arms crossed, watching.
“When you asked if you could come over,” he said eventually, “you didn’t mention the fact you’d be staying.” His eyes flicked to the bag. “That’s… not great.”
“Just a night or two,” I said quickly. “I need some breathing space.”
Max exhaled through his nose and headed for the kitchen. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m having a drink.” He opened the fridge, grabbed two beers, and held one out without asking. “I think you need this.”
I huffed a laugh that sounded wrong even to my own ears. “Is it that obvious?”
“You look like you’ve been hit by a truck,” Max said flatly. “What happened?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
He popped the tab on his can and leaned against the counter. “Try me.”
I dragged a hand down my face. My skin felt too tight. “Gary came to the flat.”
Max went very still.
“Ah. Let me guess. Nude portrait. Internet. Protective big brother with a martyr complex.”
I nodded. My throat burned. “He thinks I’m hurting Cameron.”
“And?”
My voice cracked. “What if he’s right?”
That did it.
Max straightened, eyes sharp, every trace of humour gone. “No. Stop. Right there.”