Two small words. But the weight behind them could drop a man to his knees.
I watch her walk toward the bathroom, fragile and strong all at once, and when the door clicks shut, the silence that follows is a physical thing—a fist around my lungs.
I turn away and pace my room, each step a battle against the urge to rip apart the city until I find Feriama and end him with my bare hands. Every part of me is electric with fury—white-hot,volatile, barely tethered—but I force it down. She cannot see that storm. Not tonight.
I drag a hand through my hair and breathe once. Twice. Slow. Controlled.
For her.
I find her a sweatshirt—soft, worn-in, oversized—and a pair of boxer briefs that will hang off her hips like shorts.
I hold the clothes in my hands for a moment, grounding myself.
When I return to the hallway, she opens the bathroom door just a crack. Steam spills out, curling around her like a veil, and she stands there silhouetted, fragile and fierce and impossibly out of reach.
Our eyes lock.
It’s a collision—quiet but catastrophic, a plea, an apology and a truth neither of us is brave enough to speak.
We stare at each other with an intensity that could level cities.
Two people restrained by loyalty,fear, fate—choosing not to step closer, even though everything inside of us screams to do so.
For a moment, it feels like we’re being pulled toward each other by something sharp and undeniable—a fall we both stop just before we reach the edge.
I lift the clothes in my hand just slightly. “These are for you.”
Her gaze flicks to them, then back to me. “Thank you,” she whispers, taking them before slipping back into the veil of steam—leaving the air around me burning.
I give her space and head to the kitchen, putting on some chamomile tea in case she needs something warm. By the time Iwalk back to the bedroom, she’s already sitting on my bed with her legs crossed.
Her hair is wet, pulled back into a messy twist. Her eyes are still red and heavy with sadness. She clutches the hem of my hoodie like it’s armor, and her legs are bare.
She looks so small and fragile. But even in her brokenness, her beauty still shines.
When she hears me walk in, her head lifts. She forces a smile onto her lips.
“Thank you for the bath, I feel a little better.”
“Stop thanking me,” I say as I step inside and place the tray on the side table. “I brought you some tea.”
I walk over to where she sits on the edge of my bed and take a seat beside her. I want to reach out and hold her, but I don’t.
“What happened, Beatrice?” My voice is low.
She shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter what happened.”
“Yes, it does.”
“We… we had an argument. More like a misunderstanding.”
She gives a bitter laugh. “He thought I was flirting with the waiter. And this—” she touches her cheek lightly, “—it was an accident.”
Her voice thins, frays.
“But after the gala he’s been… different. Volatile. The smallest thing sets him off.”
I sit there quietly, listening, but the rage inside me simmers hot.
