I shudder, the weight of the story lingering in the air like a thick fog. The room grows colder, and the pages in my hands seem to darken, as if the tale itself has bled into the room, saturating it with sorrow. Tears sting the corners of my eyes as the vision of the child in the woods materializes before me—her small form swallowed by the cold, empty night. She is lost to time, abandoned, her spirit severed from all it once knew, drifting aimlessly in the silence, trapped forever within the haunting embrace of the forest.
I shake my head, as if trying to free myself from this phantom burden. I know this sensation—one of unsettling longing, of yearning for something just beyond my grasp.
But before I can begin to ease the ache in my chest, I feel a light tug at my gloved elbow. My breath catches in my throat, and I turn, startled, to find Jason’s golden-brown eyes searching mine with an intensity that catches me off guard. His gaze is steady, concerned. His expression is one of quiet scrutiny, as if he sees something in me I cannot see myself. My heart skips, and I wonder if I look like I’ve seen a ghost—maybe, in a way, I have.
Jason’s concern shifts, his eyes darting to the book in my hands, and before I can speak, he reaches forward, cupping my face with hands that are warm and grounding. The room feels smaller as I’m caught between the memory of our first night as husband and wife and now, being here with him, unsure where we stand.
“I’ve been looking for you,” Jason says quietly.
My breath catches as a quiet, unexpected flutter stirs within me—gentle and familiar, yet new. Slowly, I place my hand over his, locking our fingers together. When I pull back slightly, the movement is controlled, but the quickened rhythm of my pulse betrays me.
Jason holds my gaze, the pull between us impossible to deny. I take a measured step back, lowering my hands but not breaking away entirely. A subtle smirk curves at my lips.
“Hiding again, are we?” he asks.
His words carry a hint of amusement, but beneath them, there’s something far more complicated. Jason’s eyes sweep the room slowly before landing on the stack of books on the table beside us. He tilts his head slightly.
“You didn’t want to be found, did you?”
A soft laugh escapes me, more to myself than him, the sound surprising even me. There’s something about him, something about us, that makes it easy to think about falling back into the way we were—natural, effortless. But it’s not the same.Not anymore.
As he studies me, I let my gaze flick to the corner of his mouth.
“That’s healing nicely,” I murmur, nodding faintly toward his lip.
Jason chuckles, the sound low and warm.
“Are you concerned for me, wife?”
I roll my eyes, but the corner of my mouth lifts despite myself.
“Hardly.”
Jason pulls a chair closer, positioning it just in front of me. With the same quiet confidence that has always unnerved me, he sits, crossing one foot over the other, exuding an ease I envy. His posture is casual, but there’s an intensity in his presence, in the way his eyes stay locked on me, as if he’s seeing through every layer I’ve tried to build, as if he can sense my inner conflict. I remain standing,hovering just out of reach but close enough to feel the tension vibrating between us.
“Where were you this evening?” I ask, keeping my voice light, though curiosity splinters my tone.
“With your father,” he replies smoothly, his honesty disarming me.
The bluntness of his answer catches me off guard, leaving me momentarily silent.
“Talking about what?” I press, narrowing my eyes slightly, though I tread carefully.
“You,” he says simply, the word feeling heavier than I expect.
“And?” I whisper, the question lingering in the charged air.
Jason tenses at my question. He sees it—my hesitation, my unease—and then, his composure shifts.
“He’s thrilled to know you’re…satisfiedwith me,” he says finally.
The admission sends a jolt through me, and I step back, unnerved by how easily he can say those words.
“You told him…” I begin, my voice trembling, but Jason cuts me off.
“Nothing.”
Slowly, he rises from his chair and steps toward me. His hand lifts, brushing a stray lock of hair behind my ear with a tenderness that feels at odds with the strain in his voice. His fingers linger, the touch casual yet charged with an intimacy that sends a ripple through me, far too fervent to ignore.
