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Down, dick. Down. I ground my jaw.

"You are the most drop-dead gorgeous woman I've ever seen," I answer honestly.

Her smile nearly explodes my loins, and the temptation to take her up on her offer is excruciating.

Not. The. Time.

I hold up my hand to stop her. I don't think it's my hand that makes her steps falter, but the expression on my face.

"What's wrong?"

"We need to talk."

She visibly swallows, but she doesn't disappoint. She's brave and strong when she walks past me into the bedroom, where she takes a seat on one of the sofas.

I take the seat next to her and draw in a deep breath. "I just found something out… about your dad."

"Oh?" She tilts her head, all ears.

"It's not pretty," I warn her.

"Alright," she folds her hands primly in her lap. So fucking graceful.

"Well, let me start with a confession first," I hedge. I don't feel bad about having snooped through her apartment, but she might feel different about it, especially the part where I read some of her journal. "Remember when I got your things from your apartment?"

She nods, patiently waiting for me.

"I found your journal." There is no reason to drag this out. Besides, her sharp inhale stops me anyway. I watch the emotions pass over her face, going fromoh, tooh shit. But there is noanger. Her eyes cast down; the fingers in her entwined hands begin to wring.

"Did you… did you read it?"

“Only the first few sentences,” I admit.

Her jaw tightens. Her eyes drop, and for a second, she says nothing. Just presses her lips together and stares at the floor like it might explain how to feel.

I wait, not filling the silence, giving her all the time she needs to come to grips with this. If she’s going to yell at me, I’ll take it. But when she finally speaks, her voice isn’t angry. It’s quiet. Worn.

“You had no right.”

She’s not wrong. I nod once. “I know.”

She looks up at me then—really looks—and I see the war behind her eyes. The humiliation of being exposed. The relief that someone finally knows. And just beneath all of that: fear.

But not of me.

Of herself.

“You weren’t supposed to see that.”

“I figured that out.” I try to keep my voice steady, calm. But my throat feels too tight. Her mouth opens, then closes again. She’s trembling. I take her hands in mine; they're ice cold.

“After your mom died in the car accident,” I begin, keeping my voice even, “there was an investigation.”

She nods slowly, her eyes already cloudy. “I know. The coroner said she was drunk and hit a tree.”

“That report was a lie,” I tell her. “The original one told a different story.”

My Scarlet understands more than I suspected. And I love her even more for that. I take a deep breath.