And I’m about two seconds from turning around and running like hell.
I reach the dorm hallway. The door creaks. It always creaks, but tonight the sound radiates down my spine like a warning. Everyone’s in their bunks, curtains drawn, breathing slow and deep. Except his.
Axel sleeps light.
He always did.
Even as a kid, he was the one who woke up when a branch snapped outside, the one who heard my window creak when I slipped outside after nightmares.
I step closer to his bunk, heart thundering.
His curtain is half-open. A sliver of him visible—bare shoulder, the rise and fall of his breath, arm thrown over his head. Tattoos in shadow. Muscles loose, like the world finally let him go for a few hours.
God.
He looks… peaceful.
Like the guilt that’s strangled him for years finally loosened its grip.
He deserves that peace.
He deserves everything.
My throat tightens, the letter getting heavier in my hand. I slip it onto the edge of his pillow, willing my fingers to release it.
But when I straighten, he shifts.
“Savannah?”
His voice is rough, thick with sleep, unmistakable.
I freeze. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to wake you.”
He pushes up on an elbow, eyes trying to focus. Even half-asleep, he’s devastating—hair tousled, jaw shadowed, chest bare.
“What are you doing here?” His voice drops lower. Warmer. Curious. “Everything okay?”
No.
Yes.
Absolutely not.
All at once.
“I left you something,” I whisper, stepping back.
He doesn’t look away from me as his hand drags across the pillow… and finds the envelope.
My breath stutters.
He sits fully up, curtain sliding open, and suddenly it’s just him and me in the half-light—ten years between us and not enough space in the world to make distance out of it.
His thumb brushes my handwriting. His eyes flick to mine.
“Savannah,” he says, slow, careful, like the word matters. “What is this?”
My heart hits the wall of my chest. “Just… read it. Later.”
