He looks down at the paper on the table, and my heart drops into my stomach.
I reach out instinctively, fingers snatching it faster than I can think. I squeeze the paper in my hand so tightly that the edges crumple sharply against my palm.
My legs react before my mind does, pushing me upright with a jolt.
He moves forward with that slow, unreadable grace of his, eyes never leaving mine. "Give it to me," he says, voice low and calm.
There's no rush in his tone, but something about it makes the hairs on my neck rise.
"No." The word leaves my mouth before I even register saying it.
All I know is that I can't. I won't. I'd rather die than let him read that. I'm not ready. I'm not ready for any of this.
My thoughts are a knot of confusion and doubt and fear, too many secrets that I don't understand. How will I explain when he reads?!
His brow furrows slightly, his expression almost unreadable, like he's trying to decide if he heard me correctly. "No?" he repeats, incredulous.
