“You call me that because… I’m fragile?” I whisper.
“No,” he grows. “I call you that because people will think you are.”
His breath brushes my skin again.
“But I see your wings, butterfly. And I know what happens when a creature like you finally learns how to use them.”
My throat burns.
“Which is?”
“You destroy everything that tried to trap you.”
He moves then—just a step.
But I feel the loss like a wound.
“Don’t let them clip you,” he says softly. “Not even yourself.”
And before I can respond—before I can fall apart entirely—his hands find my wrists.
Gentle.
Grounding.
And he guides them up—slow, reverent—until my palms rest against the mirror.
“Feel that?” he says.
I nod, even though he can’t see.
“That’s you. Right now.”
His lips brush the shell of my ear.
“And I want you to remember exactly who the fuck you are when you walk out of this room.”
His hands are still on mine.
Firm. Intentional.
Guiding me like he already knows what I need before I ask for it.
The mirror is cool beneath my palms, but I’m burning. From the inside out.
I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.
But maybe that’s the point.
“You feel that, butterfly?” His voice is low, rich, like molasses poured over sin. “That pulse under your skin. That ache in your throat. That part of you that’s begging for permission to misbehave?”
I can’t speak.
I don’t need to.
He leans in closer, breath hot at the back of my neck. “That’s not fear,” he whispers. “That’s recognition.”
My lips part, but nothing comes out.
