It’s something else.
He finishes dressing his arm, then gestures for me to sit. I do. He kneels in front of me and dabs at my cheek with a soaked cloth, his touch surprisingly gentle.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs.
“I know.”
“You cold?”
“No.”
He meets my eyes.
“Then what is it?”
I open my mouth, close it again. My throat tightens.
“I don’t know,” I whisper. “Maybe it’s everything. Maybe it’s you.”
His hand stills.
“Kristi…”
I shake my head. “Don’t. Just—don’t make this about right or wrong. Not right now. We got the proof. That should be enough.”
He finishes with the bandage and stands.
“No,” he says. “It’s not.”
I blink. “It’s not?”
His voice is low. Rough. “Not for me.”
I rise to meet him, barely breathing. The air between us shimmers, thick with everything we haven’t said.
“I thought you hated me.”
“I did,” he admits.
“But not anymore.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because even after everything, I still see you.”
My chest tightens. “And what do you see?”
He steps closer.
“Someone who’s scared. But brave enough to act anyway.”
“I didn’t think you’d come.”
“I didn’t think I’d forgive you.”
I look down. “Maybe you haven’t.”
