I turn my head just enough to press my lips into her palm, the only apology I can give without killing myself trying to say it.
Her sob breaks, but she doesn’t pull away.
She just holds me there, her hand against my mouth, her body curled into mine, as if she can anchor me with nothing more than her tears and her stubborn fucking heart.
And for the first time since the blast, I don’t argue.
Because maybe she’s right.
Maybe being alive is enough.
For now.
The words rattle against my teeth, begging to get out, but my throat won’t hold them. Every sound tears fire through my chest, every syllable tastes like blood and smoke.
Cass doesn’t move her hand. Doesn’t give me the chance to destroy myself just to tell her what she already knows. Her palm is soft, trembling, warm against my mouth, and I breathe her in instead of speaking.
Her shoulders shake. Her whole body leans closer, until her hair brushes my cheek and I can feel her heartbeat hammering like it’s the one keeping me alive.
“You don’t get to do that again,” she whispers, fierce and broken all at once. “You don’t get to throw yourself into hell and make me wonder if you’ll ever come back.”
My chest seizes. I want to tell her I didn’t have a choice. I want to tell her I’d do it again if it meant she stayed breathing. But the machines hiss beside me, and her tears drip faster, and I know—if I say it, she’ll shatter.
So I don’t.
I just press harder against her palm, as if I can tattoo my mouth into her skin.
Her lips brush my temple, soft and shaking. “You’re not leaving me. Not again. I don’t care how stubborn you are, how much you hate yourself—I’m not letting you go.”
My ribs scream when I try to breathe deeper, but I drag the air in anyway. I need her words filling me. I need her hands holding me here.
Butterfly.
The word pulses at the back of my throat. It aches to be said. But if I try, I’ll drown on it.
So I let my eyes say it instead. I open them just enough, heavy lids fighting, and I look at her. Really look. Red eyes, wet lashes, cheeks raw with salt. The girl who saved me, the girl I broke, the girl still here anyway.
Her gaze meets mine, and she sucks in a breath like I just pulled her out of the wreckage instead of the other way around.
“I’ve got you,” she whispers. Her forehead presses to mine. Her fingers slide down, lacing with mine tight enough to hurt. “I’ve always got you.”
My throat locks. My chest jerks. A sound crawls out, raw and ruined.
Not a word. Not yet.
But close.
Close enough she freezes, waiting, her breath caught between hope and fear.
I swallow the pain. I taste her tears on my lips. And I fight.
“B—butterfly.”
The syllables shred me open, but they land. Barely a whisper, cracked in half, but hers.
Her sob breaks into a laugh, wild and wrecked, and she kisses my knuckles like it’s the only thing keeping her upright.
And I think—maybe it is.
