But he only sees me.
I move toward him.
One step.
Another.
My heels click on the floor, a delicate sound swallowed by the ruin around us, but my heartbeat is louder—hammering, frantic, breathless.
I reach him, and I don’t speak.
I don’t need to.
His eyes flick to his fists, then back to me.
“I warned you,” he rasps, voice raw. “I told you I break things.”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “But you didn’t have to prove it like this.”
His throat works. He blinks once, twice, like he’s fighting himself.
Then, so softly it’s almost a wound:
“He touched my butterfly.”
The words should feel like poison.
But they melt across my skin like heat and ruin.
A confession.
A claim.
A warning.
I should turn.
I should walk away.
I should tell him he can’t do this, can’t be this, can’t use violence as punctuation to sentences he’s too afraid to say.
But I don’t.
Because I’m already reaching for him.
My fingers wrap around his wrist gently, brushing the torn skin, the split knuckles, the blood still fresh and warm.
He flinches—not in pain.
In vulnerability.
Like my touch hurts more than any punch he threw.
“Come with me,” I whisper.
He doesn’t argue.
Doesn’t speak.
