Page 11 of The Tex Hex (Bitches With Stitches #3)

“Nothing,” I say, settling into the passenger seat. God, he’s cute. He’s not even trying. He never tries. He just is .

The streetlights blur past in streaks of gold as Mandy drives in silence. The Mini’s engine purrs steadily, unlike my body. I wrap my arms around myself, fingers tucked tightly beneath my ribs. Why can't I stop shivering?

It’s not even cold.

I stare out the window, but all I can see is that moment when Rick’s breath hit my face, his voice in my ear, the shame curling around me and cutting deep like barbed wire. I press my forehead to the glass.

God, I’m so stupid. Brewer warned me, like, ad nauseam. You play with fire, you’re gonna get burned. A bull only charges when you wave a red flag in front of its face.

I chase these guys—no, I chase the way their attention makes me feel. I chase that feeling of being in control, that I have them right where I want them, and when I say stop, it stops.

But not everyone stops.

Not everyone can be trusted.

And nobody knows that better than me.

Mandy’s hand flexes on the wheel, and I bite down hard on my lip. My arms tighten around myself. “I hate that you saw that. Hate that I was just… frozen. Useless.”

“You weren’t useless.”

Anger spikes in my chest, sharp and hot. “I didn’t even fight back.”

“You didn’t have to.” His voice drops lower. “That’s what I’m for.”

I shake my head, blinking fast. “But I’m supposed to be stronger than this.”

Mandy exhales through his nose, like he’s trying to hold back a thousand things. The light ahead turns red, and he slows to a stop.

Then, softly, he says, “Tex… I don’t need you to be strong all the time. You don’t owe me that. You don’t owe anyone that.”

My chest caves in, and my eyes blink rapidly, trying to hold back a sudden rush of tears threatening to spill down my cheeks like Niagara Falls.

“I saw you fight,” Mandy says. “You’ve been fighting every day I’ve known you. For your sobriety. For your life. For your goddamn light, even when the world keeps trying to snuff it out.”

The car is silent except for the low hum of the heater.

“I’m not ashamed of you,” Mandy finishes, eyes still on the road. “I’m proud of you.”

And just like that, my breath stutters out of me. A silent sob escapes, and I cover my face with both hands. I don’t want him to see my tears, but I can’t hold them back.

My voice cracks. “Why do you always show up like this?”

Mandy doesn’t answer right away. Just glances over, his dark eyes shadowed but soft, like he’s carrying something too heavy to say out loud. There’s meaning in the look he gives me, a language I’m supposed to know by now.

And maybe I do. Maybe I’ve always known. Because it’s the same look he gave me back at Hooters, after the fight. The same one he’s given me a hundred times when he thinks I’m not looking. A look that says more than either of us is brave enough to speak.

I swipe at my eyes with the sleeve of my shirt, sinking into the quiet that stretches between us. It’s thick with things unspoken, but not uncomfortable.

Because with Mandy, I’m always safe.

Not once, not ever , have I felt like I needed to flinch or brace myself around him. He could be burning alive with anger, like earlier tonight, and I’d still know he’d never raise a hand to me. Never let his pain become mine.

Deep down, I know that like I know my own name.

I don’t say it out loud, but the words bloom quietly inside me like a secret:

I think I love you.

The light turns green, but Mandy doesn’t move right away. The car idles at the intersection, its engine purring low, as if it knows we need a second.

Mandy exhales. Not loud, not dramatic, just a breath that’s been stuck in his chest all night. His hand shifts off the steering wheel, and I don’t know if he means to or not, but it ends up in the space between us, palm open, fingers loose.

I reach for it instinctively.

Our fingers touch, just barely, and then link. His hand is rough and warm, big enough to swallow mine whole. He grips tighter than I expect, like he needs the contact just as much as I do.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. “For tonight. For losing it like that. I?—”

I squeeze his hand. “You were scared.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t mean to scare you ,” he says, barely audible.

“God, I’d never— I’d never. I just—he had his hands on you, and something in me snapped, and suddenly I wasn’t thinking.

I was just there , screaming in his face like I was back in the desert.

” His breath shudders. “I never want you to look at me the way you looked at him .”

My heart shatters into a thousand sharp pieces that cut my chest open. I blink hard, willing the tears not to come, but they do anyway, hot and fast and helpless.

“I never did,” I whisper. “I was scared, yeah. But not of you.” Finally, he looks at me. Eyes blown wide with grief. “I was scared for you,” I add. “Because I saw the way you looked after. Like you were ashamed. Was it from caring about me? Or was it because you lost control?”

His hand tightens around mine, and I can feel him shaking.

“I’m not ashamed,” he says. “I’m terrified. Because you matter to me more than anyone ever has, and I don’t know how to carry that and still keep all the broken pieces of myself in line.”

His grip tightens a fraction more. We sit like that until the car behind us honks, and he mutters a soft curse before finally easing forward.

The rest of the ride is quiet, but his hand stays in mine the whole way home.

And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like something broken waiting to shatter again.

I feel... held.

“Mandy?” When I have his attention, I add, “I wasn’t ashamed of you tonight. I was proud of you.”