His expression crumples, pain etching every line of his face like my tear physically cut him. He reaches out, cupping my cheek in his palm, his thumb hovering just shy of where my tear fell.
His eyes shut, his forehead tipping closer like he's trying to soak up every ounce of the hurt he caused.
"I'm sorry," he breathes, the words breaking apart in his throat.
"You were never that. You were—" His voice falter. "You were beautiful. Youarebeautiful. And not in some casual, throwaway way. I mean the kind of beautiful that used to stop me cold. The kind that made me look twice—hell, three times—because I couldn't believe I got to have that person in my life."
He exhales, almost like saying it out loud knocks something loose in him.
"I saw it every single day. The way your hair would fall in your face when you laughed too hard. The way your cheeks would flush when you were excited. The way you'd talk with your hands when you were passionate about something."
He leans in slightly, his gaze flicking over my face before landing somewhere near my nose.
"And God—your freckles."
He almost smiles, soft and sad, like the memory stings and soothes at the same time. "Where are they, anyway?"
I shift, sitting up a little straighter. "I cover them with makeup now. I hate them." My voice comes out sharper than I mean it to, but I don't take it back.
"You shouldn't hide them," he says quietly, shaking his head. "I loved your freckles. Still do."
He searches my face like he's trying to see them through the makeup.
"They were my favorite thing about you. I used to sit next to you in class just to count them when you weren't looking." His lips curve slightly at the memory, but his eyes stay soft, serious.
"They made you look like summer—like sunlight scattered across your skin. You were never more beautiful to me than when you were makeup-free, freckles and all. I thought they were the prettiest damn thing I'd ever seen."
My stomach flutters, heat crawling up my neck before I can stop it.
Ugh, of all the things for him to notice—it had to be the one thing I've hated for as long as I can remember.
It shouldn't matter, but it does, and it makes me want to both melt into the floor and throw a pillow at his stupid perfect face.
He draws in a breath, chest tight, like he's holding back more than he can say.
"I wish I could make you see yourself the way I did—still do.You were perfect to me, Caroline. Every curve, every imperfection you thought you had—I swear I loved them all. I never wanted you to be smaller or different. You were already everything."
His gaze catches mine, burning, earnest.
"And I hate that I ever made you think otherwise. I hate that I let my own fear convince you you weren't enough, because you always were. You were beautiful. Youarebeautiful. To me, you always will be."
I just stare at him for a beat, at that maddeningly perfect face, at those stupid silver eyes that look like storm clouds right before they break — wild and soft at the same time, like they could swallow me whole.
I search them for even the smallest crack, some tell that he's lying, that this is just another sweet line he thinks I want tohear. But there's nothing. Just him. Raw and open and so damn earnest it burns, like standing too close to a flame.
And that's the problem.
Because I've been here before —in front of him, swallowing every word like it was gospel, only to end up gutted when the whole thing went up in flames.
And damn it, I want to believe him now. I want to believe him so badly it feels reckless, like standing on the edge of a cliff and leaning forward just to see what happens.
But the thought of falling for it again? Of letting him back in just to have him tear me apart a second time?
It makes my throat clamp tight, my stomach knotting like it's bracing for impact. My fingers twitch, and before I can stop myself, I yank my hand back, tucking it into my lap like putting up a barricade — anything to keep a little distance, to keep the air moving in my lungs.
Zach's gaze drops to where my hand used to be, and for a split second, something flashes across his face — hurt, guilt, something jagged enough to slice him open.
When his eyes lift back to mine, they're softer now, almost pleading, like he's holding out his heart and daring me to break it.
