“Hey, come here.” I pull her into my arms, crushing her to my chest as she continues to sob. I push her sweaty hair out of her face and kiss her cheek. “Shh. Baby, it’s okay. You’re okay. It’s over, yeah? Does it hurt?”

She shakes her head and clutches onto my shirt. “I hate it here,” she cries, rubbing her face into my neck, her body shaking as she draws me closer. “I hate hiking. I hate all of it. Bugs and my smelly bug spray. All those trees you pointed out. The flowers. Fuck, I hate flowers, Mason. I fucking hate them.”

She sniffs and cries some more. I hold her tighter, running my fingers through her hair and rubbing her back.

“I was lying when I said I loved it. I don’t love it at all. I want to go.”

I press a kiss to her temple. “Okay. We can go.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Hey.” I tilt her chin up.

Her face is red, streaked with tears. Her eyes swollen and sad. She looks miserable and scared, and the worst part is she wouldn’t look this way if it wasn’t for me.

I did this.

I brought her out here and made her uncomfortable. I saw her anxiety and kept fucking pushing because I thought she’d enjoy what we were doing. Maybe not all of it, and maybe not right away, but like everything else with Brooke, I was willing to wait for that moment. Guide her to where I wanted her to be with me.

Fucking selfish is what I am. She probably hates me for this, and if she does I don’t blame her. I feel like the biggest arsehole on the planet.

“Come on.”

I stand, bringing her with me and setting her on her feet. I quickly pack everything away into my bag.

I don’t give her the chance to help. She shouldn’t have to. This is all my doing. My bloody mess I need to clean up.

Same goes for the campsite.

Once we make it back, Brooke stands off to the side while I pack up the tent and stow our belongings into our separate bags. I load up my arms with the gear and the cooler. She grabs the sleeping bag, squeezing it against her chest just like she did when we arrived yesterday. Her head stays lowered as she stares at the ground.

Fuck. She can’t even look at me now.

“I’m sorry, Brooke,” I tell her, ready to drop to my knees and beg for this woman’s forgiveness.

She lifts her eyes and nods, acknowledging me, then drops her chin against the sleeping bag and hugs it tighter.

With a jerk of my head, I motion for her to walk in front on the path that leads to the parking lot.

She’s ready to go. I won’t keep her here any longer.

The trip home is different than every other time I’ve been in the car with Brooke. I’m the one turning up the volume on the stereo, but not because I’m anxious or avoiding conversation.

I hate silence. I hate how quiet we’re both being, but somehow I know she prefers music to hearing my voice right now.

She’s completely shut off from me. Head turned and eyes engaged out the window. She hasn’t looked at me once since we pulled out of the lot. I doubt she wants to talk.

I park in front of the studio and grab Brooke’s bag out of the back of the car. I’m ready to carry it for her when she blocks my path with her body and with quick hands, takes the bag away from me.

“It’s fine. I got it.” She slides it up her arm and over her shoulder, huffing a loud breath after. Her eyes slowly reach mine.

She looks unsure of what to say next, if anything.

I’m unsure too.

I take a step back and gesture at her leg. “Clean that again when you get home, and keep some antibiotic ointment on it. You should be fine, but if it gets infected or you start running a fever, you need to go to the hospital.”

Brooke’s eyes widen marginally. She glances down at her leg, uttering a soft, “fucker,” before shaking her head and looking back up at me. Her shoulders sag. “All right. Anything else?”

I feel my eyebrows draw together. Anything else? Is she dismissing me?

Running a quick hand through my hair, I lift the other between us, then lower it with an exhausted sigh. “I don’t know, Brooke. Is there?”

My voice sounds tight and hoarse. I feel like something’s got a grip around my throat.

She stares at me like I’ve just asked her the most absurd question, her eyes hard and searching. Then, as if snapping out of a trance, she blinks away, tilting her head and wiping a hand along the line of her neck.

“Ugh. I need to take about fifty showers. I’m going to go do that and then coat my body in disinfectant.”

Spinning around, not giving me another look or word, Brooke clears traffic and hurriedly crosses the street.

I watch her get into her car. I watch her pull away and disappear around the corner.

I stand there, dumbfounded, my mouth slack, my mind reeling with confusion.

What the fuck? Is that it? Is that how this is going to end between us?

Sure, Brooke has every right to be angry with me. Sure, I fucked up dragging her out into the middle of nowhere this weekend and pushing her to try new things, but what about everything else?

The dates. Our talks and the way she opens up to me when it’s just us. Last night in the fucking tent. Does none of that matter?

I slump back against the side of my car and scrub both hands down my face. Tension pulls at my muscles. I feel stiff and tight all over.

I need a long run. Hours on the pavement.

I practice yoga daily. It calms my mind, but nothing substitutes the mental and physical workout a hard as fuck run will give you. I want to be too tired to think. Running will do that.

Haphazardly unloading my camping gear into the studio, not even bothering to take it upstairs, I lock up behind me and go through a few stretches to loosen up. I hit the footpath with quick strides, running down and back up Fayette Street, through alleys and behind businesses. I run faster, harder, down streets I’ve never been down before and ones that are familiar.

The sun lowers in the sky, dipping between buildings. Sweat soaks my shirt and trickles down my face.

My feet beat on the cement, a steady, relentless pace I push myself to keep even after my muscles ache and my lungs burn.

I think about Brooke and our weekend, but not the shit that happened today. I think about holding her last night in the tent. Her soft body curling against mine, pulling me closer in her sleep. Her breath against my neck and the smell of her hair.

Christ, being with her like that was everything. And fuck me, if I don’t want it every single night.

My infatuation with her started out as an idea. A glimpse of a woman I wanted to know and understand. A delightful interest. But the more time I spend with her, the more desperate I feel.

To have her. To keep her. I’m completely mad for this woman and I may have cocked it all up.

Three hours later and I’m staring down at the drain in my shower as cold water beats on my back.

My body is fatigued, my muscles aching and worn, but I don’t have the clarity I usually feel after a long run. My goddamn head feels heavier somehow.

So much for de-stressing therapeutically. I debate getting dressed and walking to the nearest liquor store.

Cutting the water off, I step out and cinch a towel around my waist, moving out of the bathroom and toward the bed. I unplug my phone from the charger and send out a quick text.

I did promise to keep her informed of developments. This is, unfortunately, my latest development.