He huffs, barely more than a breath. “Rain doesn't bother me.”
“Doesn’t bother me either.”
He arches a brow. “You’re shivering.”
“I’m stubborn.”
His mouth twitches—just the barest suggestion of a smile. It vanishes as fast as it comes.
“I couldn’t sleep,” he says after a beat. “I kept seeing them. The marines. Carson. Their blood on my hands. Whether I spilled it or not.”
I nod slowly. “I see them too.”
“I’m not sure if that makes it better.”
I take a step closer. “I think it means we’re still human.”
He flinches at that. Just a little. “You are.”
“You’re more human than half the people I know,” I say, and I mean it. “You care. You ache. You carry your guilt like it’s stitched to your bones.”
He looks down at me then. Really looks. His brows knit together, the rain sliding off his lashes.
“I don’t want to care,” he says.
“I know.”
“I want to go back to hiding.”
“I know that too.”
“But I can't. Not anymore.”
I step forward again, close enough that I can feel his heat radiating through the damp air. I reach up, fingertips brushing the edge of a scar across his chest.
“Then don’t.”
He stills under my touch like he’s afraid to breathe.
“You think I don’t see you,” I whisper. “But I do. Not just the fighter. Not the exile. Not the monster everyone thinks you are. I see the man who carries grief like a sword, who stayed when he should’ve run. The man who pulled me from fire. Who held me when I shook. Who listens when no one else does.”
“You make me sound noble.”
“You are. You just forgot.”
His eyes close. His jaw clenches. I feel the muscles under my palm tighten and release.
And then he leans forward, just enough that our foreheads touch. Rain slides between us, over us, through us.
I let my hand slide up to his cheek. He turns into the touch like a starving thing.
“You scare me,” he whispers.
“I scare you?”
“Because I feel peace when I’m near you. And peace feels like a lie.”
My throat tightens. “It’s not. Not this time.”
