I whisper to no one,
to nothing,
to the ghost of him still thick in this house:
“No. No, I shouldn’t?—”
But my fingers twitch.
My throat tightens.
My heart drags itself up my ribs like claws.
And before I can stop myself?—
I press Play again.
His voice hits harder the second time.
I feel it in my teeth.
In my spine.
In the place under my sternum he’s always owned.
“I told myself I wasn’t going to pick up.”
I suck in a sharp breath.
My free hand claws into the fabric of the sofa.
Hearing him again?—
his tone,
his restraint,
his anger wrapped in something hot and feral?—
it shakes something loose inside me I’ve kept locked for years.
“Do you know how hard that is? To ignore you?”
My eyes close because I can’t keep them open.
I can’t look at the room while he says these things.
I can’t pretend I’m unaffected.
My head falls back against the cushion.
My lips part around a silent gasp.
“Four years, Scar.”
Pain lances through my chest.
“Four fucking years I dreamed about you saying my name again.”
