I don’t realise I’m crying until he lifts the blindfold.
Gently.
Like even now, even wrecked, he’s careful with me.
The world rushes back in—dim light, velvet shadows, the flicker of candles around the room—but all I see is him.
Standing in front of me.
Breathing like a man who’s just survived a war.
Eyes blazing.
Jaw clenched.
And I realise?—
He’s already broken.
Not because of me.
But because he’s finally found the one thing he can’t have without destroying it.
Me.
Butterfly.
His ruin wrapped in softness.
And he’s trying—really trying—not to clip my wings before I learn to fly.
But what he doesn’t know?—
Is that I don’t want to fly.
I want to fall.
With him.
Into him.
For him.
And I think he knows.
Because when I reach up and touch his chest—slow, sure, no hesitation this time—he covers my hand with his.
And he shakes.
Not a lot.
Just enough to prove that I’m not the only one trembling.
“Dax,” I whisper, voice cracking. “Then don’t break me.”
His eyes lock with mine.
And his answer is the softest thing I’ve ever heard from a man that dangerous.
