“I see everything, butterfly. Even the things you lie to yourself about.”
My breath catches.
His hand moves a little higher.
Still not touching, not really—just hovering. Like his self-control is the only thing keeping him from setting me on fire.
“I see the way you watch people.”
My heartbeat stutters.
“I see the way you shrink to fit rooms too small for your mouth, your fire, your chaos.”
My throat tightens.
“You’ve been pretending for so long, you don’t even remember what it feels like to want something without guilt choking it down.”
God.
His words cut deeper than any touch.
He sees me. And that’s so much worse than just wanting me.
He leans closer.
So close his lips almost brush mine.
But they don’t.
Instead, he whispers, “I won’t take what you’re not ready to give. But I will show you what’s already yours.”
I blink at him.
“What if I don’t know how to take it?”
He smirks.
“Oh, butterfly,” he breathes. “That’s where I come in.”
He stands again, slow, every inch of him dripping control. He turns, grabs something off the table—a simple object. A blindfold.
He holds it up like a dare.
“You ready?”
I stare at it.
At him.
At the mirror.
And then I nod.
Because I don’t want to see the girl I’ve been pretending to be anymore.
I want to see the one he sees.
He walks behind me, slow, and my whole body tenses.
