“You shouldn’t say things like that,” I whisper.
“Why?” His voice softens. “Because you think you’re broken?”
Yes.Because all my pieces are wrong.Because I was built by fire, which taught me that warmth and safety are seldom the same thing.
“You’re not broken,” he continues. “You’re bleeding. There’s a difference.”
My lashes tremble.
He shifts closer on his side. I hear it. Feel it. The sound of someone choosing proximity even when it costs.
“You’re still here,” he says gently. “You survived things that should’ve erased you. That doesn’t make you dangerous.”
His voice drops.
“It makes you powerful.”
Something fractures inside my chest.
Not clean.
Not kind.
Wide and ugly and necessary.
“I don’t know how to be good,” I whisper.
He answers as if the truth has always been obvious.
“Then don’t be.”
A breath breaks from me.
Not laughter.
Something sharper.
“That’s the worst priest advice I’ve ever heard.”
A low sound from him. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sigh.
“All I know,” he says, “is that you’re real. And whatever you carry into this—”
A pause.
His hand presses against the door again.
“I’ll hold it.”
I shake my head, eyes burning.
“You shouldn’t.”
He lowers his reply to a vow.
“I want to.”
The words hang between us.
