I stop breathing.
The words don’t make sense at first. They reach my ears, echo in my head, but they don’t settle. They don’t register.
“What?” I say.
She doesn’t repeat it.
She doesn’t have to.
I just sit there, staring at her, my brain glitching like a machine that’s been hit with a hammer.
She’s serious.
She’s actually serious.
“Claire…” My voice comes out hoarse, raw. “You’re not—you don’t actually mean that.”
She doesn’t say anything.
“Claire.”
Still nothing.
I shake my head, heat rising up my throat, something heavy pressing against my chest. “We’ll figure this out. Whatever this is, we’ll fix it.”
She lets out a small breath, her fingers slipping out of my grip. “Damon, you can’t fix everything.”
“Like hell I can’t.”
“This isn’t about fixing. It’s about me needing to
