A quiet rebellion. A small act of defiance.
Like this is her only way to say:you don’t get to have me anymore.
And I get it.
God, I get it.
I deserve every inch of distance she builds.
Still, I reach out—slowly. Gingerly. My fingers graze her knuckles, and I flinch.
An electric spark snaps through my skin.
She’s real.
She’s here.
Not a memory. Not a cruel trick of the mind.
I don’t try to hold her hand. I wouldn’t dare. But I keep my palm beneath hers.
And she opens her fist.
Just a little.
Just enough that it feels like—almost—she lets me hold her again.
I look up. And God help me, she’s still so fucking beautiful.
But my brain’s an asshole. It reminds me of all the times I found her beautiful and still...
Stillmanaged to fuck it up.
Still missed what mattered. Still made her question her place beside me.
An urge rises.
I lift my other hand. She winces.
“Can I...” I stop. My voice comes out rough, cracked. “Can I touch your face?”
It’s horrifying to know that I’d be this degraded in her eyes that my touch would ever offend her.
But she doesn’t speak. Just nods.
Expression blank. Like it doesn’t matter to her. Just a tired exasperation.
It matters to me. And for now, that’s enough.
I cup her cheek with a reverence I don’t deserve.
Light. Careful.
Like I might break her—or myself—if I press too hard.
My thumb traces the scar. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move.
But something in her eyes flickers. Panic, maybe.
