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“I don’t want to talk about it.”

The words come out harsher than I mean them to. She flinches beside me, the air in the car growing heavier.

“Beau.”

“I said I don’t want to talk about it, Whitley.” My knuckles go white on the steering wheel. “I already ruined your night. Let’s just drop it.”

She averts her gaze, turning to face the window. Her reflection in the glass looks small. Hurt.

Goddammit. This right here is exactly why I don’t do this. I don’t know how to hold something that burns as bright as Whitley Collins.

I should be telling her how beautiful she looked up on that stage tonight. How fucking proud I was. Instead, I’m pushing her away like a fucking cliché. Just like every man who ever broke something good.

I fucking hate myself for it, but I can’t stop.

We pull up to her place, headlights cutting across the porch. She unbuckles her seat belt slowly, but she doesn’t move to open the door. Instead, she turns toward me, hopeful. “Are you coming in?”

“I should probably head home.”

The change in her posture is heartbreaking. Her shoulders slump, hope folding in on itself. Her fingers tighten briefly around the seat belt, then fall limply to her lap.

“You’re seriously not coming in?”

“I’ve got something to take care of,” I mutter.

“Oh, okay,” she snaps. “You’ve got something to take care of. Great. That clears it right up.”

“Whitley.”

“No, don’t,” she says. “Don’t do that thing where you give me pieces and expect me to pretend it’s enough.”

I cling to the wheel, hard enough my fingers go numb. “I didn’t mean to⁠—”

“No, you never mean to. But you do. You push and pull like it’s a game, and I’ve played it. I’ve been good. I waited for you to come around, to tell me what’s going on in your head. I gave you space. I gave you everything I could.”

Her voice cracks then, but she doesn’t stop. “And you give me nothing. Except crumbs and this tired, sad look like you already know how this ends.”

Her words land like a punch, knocking the breath out of me. She’s sitting here, cracked open and brave in a way I’ve never been. I want to give her what she needs. I want to be the man who deserves her brilliant smile.

But I’m not. I ruined her evening. I can’t go in because I have to check on my mother instead of celebrating with Whitley like I want.

I’m not cut out for this, so I do the one thing I swore I would never do to her ever again.

I swing low.

“Come on,” I hear myself say, voice flat and bitter. “Was it ever really that serious?”

I already feel fucking sick as soon as the words are out. She doesn’t react at first. Then she blinks slowly, like she’s giving the universe a chance to rewind. Like maybe the man who kissed her with his whole fucking soul a few hours ago didn’t just reduce it to nothing.

Her face goes blank, and that’s so much worse. I rather her yell. I know how to stand in front of anger. But the way she goes carefully, quietly still… That’s not something I know how to survive.

“Oof,” she breathes. “Okay.”

She opens the door, and I don’t move an inch, cemented to the spot by my own cowardice. Because this is what I do. I burn it down, and I call it protecting her.

She throws one last look over her shoulder, her eyes glossy. They’re burning with what might be the last of her patience with me.

“I really, really hope you know that was bullshit. For your own sake. Because if it wasn’t?” Her voice shakes, then hardens. “Then I feel sorry for the next girl who falls in love with you. Because god help her, Beau. If this is what you do when it gets real, then she’s already fucked.”