Crimson sat across from Al at a back table in the tavern, her red dress catching the low light. She wanted one thing tonight. She wanted him to know the worst of her and stay anyway. Her fingers found the small black jewelry box in her lap. Inside it, folded small, was a page torn from an old journal — the sentence she had never said out loud. Al watched her hands. He didn't speak. He never rushed her. "I break things," she said. "On purpose. When someone gets close, I push until they leave. So I can prove I was right to expect it." Her throat closed. She made it open again. "That's the thing. That's what I am underneath." She set the box on the table and slid the folded page toward him. Her hands shook. Outside the window, a shadow moved — the panther she called when she was afraid, pacing the dark, waiting for a reason. Al read the page. He read it twice. Then he folded it back, small and careful, and put it in his own pocket. "Okay," he said. "I heard you." He reached across and took her hand. "I'm still here." She breathed out for what felt like the first time in years. The panther outside stilled, then turned and walked back into the dark. She had said it. He had stayed. But his other hand was closed tight in his lap, hiding something of his own — and she saw it, and knew the next thing she had to ask.