Only exhaustion.
And the bitter clarity of someone who’d been bearing too much for too long.
She studied him—the set of his jaw, the wear behind his eyes.
“Do you ever get tired of it?” she asked.
“Every damn day.”
No hesitation.
No facade.
“But if I walk away, there’s no one left to stop them.”
The truth cracked something open.
Then, slowly, tentatively, his fingers brushed her arm.
Just a touch. Barely there.
But it undid her all the same.
“Don’t let them get in your head,” he said.
Softer now. Not a warning.
A reassurance.
“They’ll never see all you’re made of. But I do.”
Her throat tightened.
She nodded. Small but certain.
“Be careful,” she said, barely steady.
“Always.”
Then, he stepped away.
Gone.
The space he’d left filled with cold.
With silence.
With everything he couldn’t say.
Arden turned back to her work.
The faint clink of glass meeting wood was the only sound in the room.
But the air hadn’t cleared.
It hung heavy. Thick in her lungs. Sharp at her spine.
A shadow that refused to leave.
