But it was hollow.
The truth was harder to face: I didn’t want her to leave the room.I wanted her laughter close, her chatter filling the spaces I’d let go quiet.And that realization was the cruelest blow of all.
Because it meant I was already losing the fight I’d promised myself I’d win.
The chair scraped back hard as I shoved to my feet; the legs shrieking against the wood floor.I couldn’t sit still, not with the storm in my chest.Her footsteps had barely faded down the hall when I found myself moving, heavy boots striking against the floor, each step louder than the last.
“You almost kissed her,” I muttered, jaw tight, the words spilling out like a curse.“What the hell are you doing?”
My fists clenched as I stalked toward the library, fury radiating through me—but it wasn’t aimed at her.It never was.She’d done nothing but smile, nothing but try to carve light out of the shadows I lived in.This anger was mine, twisted inward, sharp as barbed wire.
I caught sight of her through the half-open doorway.She was already at work, kneeling by a stack of books, her head bent, lips moving with some half-hummed carol under her breath.Completely unbothered by the storm she’d left behind in the kitchen.
I stopped short, leaning against the wall like I needed the support.
“She deserves safety,” I whispered harshly, low enough only I could hear.“Someone whole.Someone unscarred.Someone who isn’t… this.”
The words burned, but I clung to them like penance.She wasn’t mine to want.She shouldn’t be.
And yet…
My gaze lingered, traitorous, following the sweep of her hair as it slid over her shoulder, the soft curve of her smile when she brushed dust from a spine.She filled the space like she belonged there, like she belongedhere.
I cursed under my breath, dragging a hand over my face, but still I didn’t turn away.
Because no matter how many walls I built, no matter how many times I told myself to keep my distance, the truth was undeniable.
I couldn’t stay away.
I found her in the library, perched on a battered stool like she’d lived there her whole life.Her hair had slipped loose, strands falling over her cheek as she worked, humming that tune again while she slid books into place.
It hit me in the gut.The sight of her in this room—my room, my sanctuary—looked wrong and right all at once.She didn’t justfithere.She looked like she belonged.Like she belonged everywhere in this house, as if it had been waiting for her.
The words rose sharp in my throat, automatic, my shield ready.You shouldn’t?—
But they caught.Died before I could spit them out.
She turned then, glancing over her shoulder at me.That smile—soft, unguarded—hit harder than a bullet.My anger drained out like sand through my fists, leaving nothing behind but the raw, dangerous want I’d been fighting to bury.
“Morning,” she said, light as air, like yesterday’s storm of words hadn’t happened at all.
I swallowed hard, the growl I’d meant to muster lost somewhere in my chest.My boots felt heavy as I stepped deeper into the room, the silence between us humming louder than her carol.
She rose slightly on the stool, stretching for a book just out of reach on the top shelf.The hem of my old T-shirt tugged higher against her frame, and I swore my blood turned molten.
Before I could think, before I could stop myself, I moved.
I stepped in close, reaching past her, steadying the worn spine with one scarred hand.My knuckles brushed against hers—barely a touch, but enough to send heat shooting through my veins.
The jolt stopped me cold.
I expected her to flinch, to pull back like everyone else did.But she didn’t.
Her hand stayed there, steady, warm against mine.Slowly, she looked at me, really looked, those eyes calm and unwavering.They didn’t dart to the scars, didn’t waver with pity or disgust.They held me, quiet and sure, as if she saw right past the wreckage.
I should’ve pulled away.I should’ve barked something cutting, built the wall back up before it cracked any wider.
But I couldn’t move.
