“But you really gonna tell me you can walk outta here, pulse not fuckin’ racing? Like we didn’t already fall apart in each other’s hands.” His gaze sits heavy on me, stunned and bleeding. “Like we didn’t feel all that, without even takin’ our goddamn clothes off.”
His head shakes,
but his hand in mine is steady,
the only part of him not crumbling to pieces.
“Don’t say that was just me. ‘Cause it wasn’t. I know it wasn’t.”
He wipes his forehead across his bicep, breath shredded, then sees his other hand’s trembling in front of him?—
the one I’m not holding.
“Jesus—look at me.”
Another laugh escapes him broken.
“My fuckin’ hand’s shaking…
“and I didn’t even get inside you.”
When his eyes meet mine again,
all the fight drains out of him.
Like he’s never been more sure he’s fucked.
I wanted to make him fall apart.
Notfall apart.
He’s not supposed to be trembling because I touched him.
Not because I’m about to walk away.
I don’t want to be the reason he’s cracking from the inside out.
Not him. Not this one.
“You’ll forget about this by next week,” I say. “It’s fine.”
His eyes die on me,
breath going with them.
I meant to cut, not gut,
but the way his eyes go gray and still
is a funeral.
As if I already rewound the night
and erased him from it.
“What?” His brows raise. “Nah—hey. Don’t.” He grabs my hand tighter. “Don’t do that… don’t shut it down like it meant nothin’.”
I want to tell him it meant too much,
