It hurts when I force it.
The words screamed inside me, useless.
He studied me for a long second. Then another.
Something shifted.
Not trust.
But doubt.
He lifted his hand slowly—deliberately—and covered my mouth.
The warmth of his palm shocked me.
His hand was large enough to cover both my mouth and most of my nose, calloused and steady. I could still breathe through the small gaps between his fingers, shallow, shaky breaths ghosting across his skin.
“Stop trying to speak,” he ordered, low and calm, every word a blade.
My eyes filled instantly.
“I know it hurts,” he murmured.
I nodded once—small, frantic, trembling.
“But... how... how did you manage to speak at the altar?” His voice was softer now, but the weight behind his gaze made my chest tighten.
I could only answer with my eyes, wide and pleading, my lips trapped beneath his large, dangerous hand.
The silence between us roared louder than any words ever could.
He exhaled sharply—a sound caught somewhere between frustration and something far more dangerous.
“I don’t understand sign language,” he said. “I don’t know what shaking your head means. But I do know this—” His thumb shifted slightly against my cheek. “—it hurts you when you try. And I know you can’t speak right now.”
He looked away, jaw tightening as if angry with himself for noticing.
For hesitating.
I lifted my hand slowly—carefully—and wrapped my fingers around his wrist.
Not pulling.
Not resisting.
Just holding.
A silent plea.
Please.
See me.
I didn’t do it.
I didn’t kill anyone.
He didn’t yank away.
