That when I come back broken and blood-soaked, there’ll be no one waiting.
No butterfly.
No warmth.
No fucking light.
I stare at her, and for the first time, I can’t see her clearly.
Just shapes. Blurs. Like my mind’s gone static.
Her lips are parted like she’s going to say more, but I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want her pretty, soft-spoken guilt. I don’t want her sad eyes and syrup-slick skin.
I want to forget I ever fucking touched her.
I want to undo everything.
Because this hurts worse than any bullet I’ve ever taken.
And I’ve taken a few.
“You knew,” I say, low.
Not a question.
An accusation.
Her shoulders flinch like I slapped her.
“I was going to tell you?—”
“When?” I cut in, voice shaking. “After I kissed you goodbye? After you waved from the runway and I fucking turned to ash?”
Tension coils through me like a tripwire and suddenly, I’m back there.
Back in the sand.
Back in the blood.
Back in the endless fucking noise.
I see Malachi’s face the last time I saw him—laughing, young, stupid. And then I see what was left of him twenty minutes later.
I see smoke. Fire. Screaming.
I see the med tent and the fucking bodies piled too high.
And now her.
She wants to go there.
Into that.
Butterfly wings in a goddamn furnace.
My stomach twists.
“You think this is a game?” My voice breaks. “You think war is some beautiful cause to go fucking volunteer in?”
