“I’m trying not to drag you under with me,” he growls. “Everything near me gets ruined.”
“That’s not your decision to make.”
His hand twitches—like he wants to reach for me. Like he’s physically fighting the instinct.
I take one more step.
“So ruin me,” I whisper.
His breath stops. And then—he breaks.
One second, he’s a wall. The next, his mouth is on mine.
The kiss is hard, fierce. His hands frame my face, desperate, trembling. I grip the front of his shirt like I might fall through the floor otherwise.
This is not soft. This is not careful. This is two people starving, finally admitting it.
I gasp against his lips and he moves closer. Presses me back against the workbench, sawdust scattering under my fingertips. Heat roars through me. His body fits mine like it’s been waiting for this moment—afraid of it, wanting it, terrified of wanting it.
When he finally pulls back, it’s only because he has to breathe. His forehead rests against mine, breath uneven, lips still shaking.
“I can’t,” he says, voice shattered.
“You already have,” I whisper.
He stumbles backward like he’s been hit. Eyes wide. Chest heaving. Horror crowding out the hunger.
“No. Ava—” He shakes his head, backing away further, almost tripping over a stack of wood. “I told you. Everything near me gets destroyed.”
“You saved us,” I say. “You keep saving us. Why is that so terrible?”
“Because I’m not supposed to want to.”
His voice has a crack in it—and it opens something inside me too. He grips the edge of his workbench like he needs the world to stop spinning. His eyes refuse to meet mine.
“I can’t do this,” he says hoarsely.
“What?” My voice breaks.
He forces himself to look at me—really look—and the devastation in his eyes hurts worse than the words.
“I can’t care about you.”
Too late. He already does.
He turns, bracing his palms against the workbench like the wood is the only thing keeping him upright. His shoulders are shaking — not with cold, but with the weight of everything he’s tried not to feel.
My heart slams once. Then I move.
I cross the space between us and lay my hand over his—fingers sliding over splinters and rough calluses. He jerks, but he doesn’t pull away.
“You think caring is a choice,” I whisper, sliding my other hand up the rigid line of his arm. “It isn’t. It already happened.”
His breath stutters — a sharp, broken sound.
“Ava…” He says my name like he’s confessing it.
I step closer until my front presses to his back, warmth against the trembling cold of him. My cheek brushes his shoulder blade. “You don’t get to decide you don’t care about us just because you’re scared of what it means.”
