His eyes were red. Whether from the rain or something else, I couldn't tell. Stubble shadowed his jaw, patches he hadn't finished shaving that morning. His lips were cracked, a thin film of dry skin peeling along the edges.
He stared at me. His gaze traveled down from my face to the suitcase, then to the pile of clothes on the floor, and finally back up.
"You're serious?" he asked.
I said nothing.
"You're serious?" he asked again. His voice changed, like something had lodged in his throat. "Over this? Over this bullshit?"
"Bullshit?" I repeated.
"Yes, bullshit!" His voice shot up. "She sat on my lap for a second, so what? I've known her for over twenty years. If there was ever anything between us, it would've happened already. You think it'd wait until now? Is this really worth all this? Is it?"
I looked at him.
He was breathing hard, chest heaving, and the hand gripping mine was shaking.
"Valentine," I said. "You're hurting me."
He froze for a second. His grip loosened, but he didn't let go.
"I'm not letting go," he said. "The second I do, you'll run."