MARK:
I used to hate her. Hated the way she always smiled, the way she could see right through me. Hated that somehow, without apology, she walked into my life and made herself at home. But what I feel for her now—it's too surreal.
I thought I'd never feel anything like this again after her. But I was wrong.
I glanced at my wrist, where her long-lost favorite baby pink scrunchie rested, the one she left behind in the cafeteria the day we first met. It had been a beautiful accident, really. She'd thrown cold coffee right at my face, claiming later it wasn't meant for me. But I still have my doubts.
She was the only warmth I'd known in years, the one thing that scared me enough to remember what it was like to melt. I'd kept that scrunchie as a reminder—a small, distant warmth buried in the icy fortress I'd built around myself. A warmth with the power to shatter everything I'd created to keep people out.
Maybe that's why I hated her. Because I knew I couldn't keep away.
Now, I sped down the streets of Boston like a wild horse, blazing through the night like I owned it. And if I wanted to, I could. But that wasn't the point.
She's in danger, and I'm ready to burn the world down if anyone's laid a finger on her.
I pressed down on the accelerator, whispering, "I'm coming, mi cariño."