Tired of the numbness that’s hollowed me out, of the silence where joy used to live, I just want to feel something again. Anything. Something that isn’t rage, sadness, grief, or fucking regret.
I don’t have the strength to fight against what I think is wrong, but what feels so fucking right. I’m tired of dragging myself through days that don’t feel like mine.
Of pretending I’m fine when I’m not.
I need to escape. To feel like myself again.
I meet his gaze, unflinching now. Reckless. Desperate. “Make me feel better.”
He looks at me, stunned. I don’t know if he remembers I said those words in the car after his mom’s event, when I was hurt and needed to use him.
I hike up my skirt and climb over to his side.
“Cora…” he rasps.
“No talking, no analyzing… just make me feel better.”
“I don’t—”
“Fuck, Xander, you betrayed me, you lied to me, you manipulated me; don’t you grow a conscience now when I need you to be reckless with me.”
The war behind his eyes should frustrate me—especially now, when need pulses through me like a second heartbeat. But it doesn’t.
It calms me.
It’s like with our break up, he lost a piece of his recklessness.
And somehow, I gained that part of him that never hesitated.
Somehow, that shift evens the scales.
He doesn’t move, but he is barely hanging onto his control. I can see it in the way his jaw tightens, in the way his breath comes rough and uneven. He’s trying to hold back.
I rake my fingers through his hair, slow, deliberate. He shudders under the touch, eyes flickering closed for a beat too long.
His hands are fists at his sides, like touching me might undo him completely. And God, part of me wants that—wants to see him fall apart.
But more than that, I want to feel anything but the way I’ve been feeling since our marriage collapsed.
His breath hitches as I lean in, my lips a breath from his.
The kiss comes slowly. Like a memory. Like a warning. His mouth brushes mine—tentative, hesitant. Not like him. Not like us.
It should feel foreign.
It doesn’t.
I breathe him in, and the taste of him cracks something open in me. My fingers fist the hair above his collar. I need to anchor myself in this moment, or I’ll drown.
Because I am unraveling. Fast.
Every heartbeat feels like a breaking point.
But he’s still holding back. His hands hover at my waist, the restraint coiled in his body like a drawn bow.
He’s trying to stay in control—trying to be careful. Or to do the right thing. Finally.
I don’t want careful.
