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“You can’t keep me here.”

“You think I’m going to let you run when I still don’t know why you’re running?”

“You think I owe you that?” I fire back, louder than I mean to. My chest heaves. My hands won’t stop shaking.

Where the hell is this coming from? I am not this person. I don’targue.

Boone growls something under his breath and jerks the bag harder. My grip slips. The strap rips through my fingers and the bag hits the bed with a thud. I reach for it again, but he’s already unzipping it, his movements are rough like the contents are just obstacles he needs to bulldoze through.

“Stop it—” I lunge forward, trying to grab his arm.

He shrugs me off.

“Jesus, Boone, you can’t just?—”

The way he rifles through my duffel is nothing short of violent. Every folded shirt, every sock, every pair of underwear—I watch them all scatter into a mess on the bed.

He tosses a sweater aside. Then a pair of jeans. The sleep shorts with the little strawberries. One by one, they get flung behind him or stacked on the bed like discarded evidence. The pile grows as my dignity shrinks.

Then comes the toiletry bag. It flops open, spilling a hairbrush, two tampons, and a travel-sized lotion across the comforter. He doesn’t blink. Just pushes it aside and keeps digging.

His muttering starts again, under his breath. I don’t catch most of it. Just fragments.

“Running again…”

“…don’t even know her fucking name…”

“…whole goddamn house…”

I back up toward the corner of the bed, fingers digging into the hem of my shirt to keep from shaking.

“I can’t believe you were really just gonna walk out,” he mutters. “What the hell were you even planning to do? Steal a car? Hitch a ride? On what highway, Ani?”

“I hadn’t thought that far ahead,” I say, through gritted teeth.

“You seem to do a lot of that, don’t you? Half-assed planning. Running off into the wild with no safety net. Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

He’s digging deep into my bag now, and whatever he touches makes him pause. He pulls his hand out and stares down at what he’s got gripped in his fist.

Bright pink, with a horn that curls a little at the tip. The silicone shaft bounces once in his hand before flopping sideways.

The dildo.

The expression that falls across Boone’s face is not one I’ll forget anytime soon. It’s half horror, and one-hundred percent confusion.

He stares at it. Then at me. Then back at it.

I can’t help it.

A sound flies out of me. I try to swallow it down, but it’s already out.

It starts as a giggle.

Boone’s face goes red, his mouth parting like he’s going to say something, but the words never make it out.

He drops the dildo.

Literally drops it like a live wire. It bounces off the bed and hits the floor with a dull thunk. Boone backs up like it bit him, his hands in the air, his whole body recoiling like he’s made contact with something radioactive.