By the Book

Chapter Twelve: Cracking the Facade

The soft glow of my desk lamp cast long shadows across the papers scattered on my desk, but the familiar warmth of the light did little to ease the cold knot in my chest. My office was quiet—too quiet—and every small noise seemed to echo in the stillness. The faint hum of the computer, the rustle of papers as I shifted them absentmindedly, the occasional scrape of my chair against the floor. All of it grated against my nerves, setting my teeth on edge.

I stared blankly at the spreadsheet in front of me, the rows and columns blurring together in a mess of numbers that should've made sense but didn't. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, but every time I tried to type, my mind wandered back to that night. The rain, the warmth of his arms, the softness in his voice as he'd told me I wasn't alone.

I swallowed hard, pushing the memory aside and focusing on the spreadsheet again. But the harder I tried to concentrate, the more my chest tightened, the more I could feel the weight of his hazel eyes watching me, steady and unyielding, as if he'd seen every crack in my carefully constructed armor.

Why did you run? The question had circled my mind endlessly since that night, gnawing at the edges of my resolve. I'd mumbled something ridiculous about professionalism—an excuse even I didn't believe—and bolted into the storm like a coward, leaving him standing there, confused and probably hurt.

I hadn't even taken the books. They were still sitting there on that shelf, waiting for me like some kind of silent accusation.

I leaned back in my chair, rubbing my temples. "Focus, Kara," I muttered to myself. But the words rang hollow, like an order I couldn't obey.

Because the truth was, it wasn't just about Miles. It was about everything—every connection I'd tried to make, every time I'd let someone in, only to watch them leave.

My fingers drummed restlessly on the edge of the desk, the familiar rhythm doing little to calm the storm in my chest. I stared at the spreadsheet, willing the numbers to make sense, to ground me, but they blurred further, the screen a useless jumble of data that refused to click into place.

My mom's voice echoed in my mind again, unbidden: You're always picking up the pieces.

It wasn't meant as a burden, but that's what it had become. I'd carried it with me, shaped my life around it, turned it into a creed. It was easier to be the one who fixed things, the one who held it all together, than to risk relying on someone who might not stay. Dependability was a shield, and I'd worn it so long it had fused to me.

But that night with Miles had cracked something. The shield felt heavier now, its edges sharp and unwieldy. The warmth of his voice, the steady comfort of his presence—those things had slipped through the cracks before I'd bolted, leaving me exposed.

I leaned forward, elbows on the desk, resting my head in my hands. Why had I run? It wasn't a question of logic but instinct, a defense mechanism honed over years. A familiar, haunting voice crept in next, a low hum of criticism that always lingered just out of reach.

You're too much, Kara. Too rigid. Too focused on control. You push too hard.

He'd said it enough times that it had become a mantra, a quiet undertow pulling at the foundation of who I was. Every argument, every sideways glance, every cold silence—each one chipped away at me until it was easier to stop letting anyone in at all.

I straightened abruptly, shoving the chair back as I stood. The office felt stifling, the walls closing in around me. I paced the length of the room, my steps uneven, my arms crossed tightly over my chest.

Miles had seen me. Not just the version of me I presented to the world, polished and capable, but the cracks beneath it. He'd noticed things no one else had—the cardigan I kept just in case, the way I fidgeted when I was lost in thought. He'd noticed, and he hadn't run.