But he’s staring.
His eyes are searing my skin, making my nerves dance on end and my muscles tight at every angle.
Clearing my throat, I try not to fidget or shake as I turn my laptop toward him, but his hands fly forward, and I yank mine back just in time for him to slam the screen closed.
My eyes jump to his and his glare sharpens.
“Are you for real right now?” he snaps, his palms tightening into a fist on the tabletop.
He stares, the anger in his gaze fighting to hold still, but dissolving with each passing second. He’s waiting for me to respond, to say something, anything, I imagine, but I couldn’t speak if I tried.
Because now that I’ve looked up, finally meeting his deep blue eyes, my insides liquify. Everything stings, burns like a festering open wound a sharp point is being pressed into.
He has dark circles that only come from lack of sleep, his normal scruff is five times sharper, and he might have even lost a few pounds. But none of those compare to the lost look in his eyes.
The confusion.
The hurt.
The hate?
“Talk to me.” His forearms clench. “Talk to me ...”
“Tobias, please.”
“Don’t. Don’t Tobias me.” He jerks forward, reaching for my hand, but I pull it back, placing it in my lap and the ache in his gaze reflects the feeling in my chest. “Why are you doing this?”
“Stop.”
“I won’t. I’m fucking not.” He shoots to his feet, stepping around the table, slowly dropping to his knee beside me, forcing us eye to eye.
My pulse pounds against my temple, in my throat. Everywhere. All over, and it only gets stronger when his knuckle comes up, squeezing my lungs and bringing my gaze to his.
A harsh, choppy hiss slips past my lips and I clamp them shut.
“Talk to me.” He frowns.
“You should go.”
“I said I’m not, so stop trying.”
My resolve is cracking, so I jerk free, shoot to my feet, and shove my things in my bag, but he stops me, so I let it all go and take off.
“Meyer!” he shouts, dashing after me, but his voice grows farther away. “Damn it, Meyer. Hold on!”
I pick up the pace, thankful the place we met is on the edge of campus and all I have to do is make it across the yard, through the alleyway and into my front door.
His footsteps thump behind me, so I start to run.
I forget to look down the road before I cross and scream when a car comes close to hitting me, having to swerve out of the way as I dash into the street.
“Fuck! Meyer!”
Tears stream down my face and my body shakes, but I keep running.
I hear him shout something at the driver, as if it was their fault, and what sounds like a fist against a hood, but I don’t look back.
I’m at my front door a minute later, reaching out and gripping the knob, and then his large palm comes down over mine, freezing me there.
My bag is tossed at my feet, and he grips my upper arm, jerking me around with a gentle force.
“What’s the matter with you?” he nearly shouts. “You almost got hit!”
“Go.”
“Stop telling me to go.”
“I can’t ...” My chest heaves. “Please, I can’t.”
“Can’t what?” he asks, and the longer he stares, the more his shoulders fall. “Can’t what, baby?”
“Leave!” I scream, my cheeks warm with my own tears and Tobias jerks away from me, his eyes roaming my face as he backs up, giving me the space I’m demanding but don’t really want.
“What’s really going on, Meyer?”
His tone is so soft, my cries are no longer silent, but breaking through my throat.
He opens his mouth to speak, but the door at my back creaks as he does, and Bianca meets my eyes, a question in hers.
Should she stay or go?
My lip twitches, and I nod, so she slips out, squeezing my arm with worry in her gaze.
It’s okay, B. Go.
She nods back, climbs into her car and pulls away.
We both watch her go, needing that free second to breathe, but then her taillights are out of sight, and all that’s left is us.
Tobias rubs at the scruff on his jaw, slowly looking to me.
“I don’t want you here.” I manage to keep my voice from breaking. “Please go.”
“I don’t get it,” he mutters, defeat weighting every part of him down. “What did I do? I’ve replayed every minute I’ve spent with you over and over again and I don’t get it. Was it the article? Or maybe the party? I only wanted to show you off to my friends. If you weren’t ready for that you should have told me. I just ... I thought you were comfortable with us and that you might have needed a night out with people your age, that maybe you’d enjoy it, but I don’t need that,” he rushes. “I don’t. I can give up all that.”