I know I should.
I’ve already crossed the line—broken into her perfect little life, stood at her bedside, watched her breathe the way she used to when she fell asleep on my shoulder after swearing she hated me.
But my feet won’t move.
Not yet.
Not when she makes that sound.
A soft, trembling exhale—half whimper, half plea—the exact same noise she used to make when she’d dream she was falling and I’d grab her waist to pull her back.
My whole body locks.
There it is.
The sound that kept me alive.
The sound she swore wasn’t for me.
I step closer to the bed.
Her brow knots tighter.
Her hand curls lightly against her chest, fingers twitching in a pattern I know too well—she’s dreaming something loud.
“No,” she breathes, so soft I almost miss it.
My stomach drops.
She’s scared.
Not of me.
Not of Noah.
But of something she won’t open her eyes to face.
I lean in again.
Closer.
Close enough that if she wakes, I’ll be the first thing she sees.
Close enough that I could steal her breath with mine.
Her eyelashes flutter.
Her lips part.
“Don’t go…” she whispers.
My heart stops.
I swallow a curse.
“You’re talking to me,” I breathe, voice cracking despite myself. “You’re fucking talking to me in your sleep.”
Noah shifts behind her—his arm tightening like a chain—and every cell in my body screams to tear him off her. To break the distance between us. To haul her out of this bed and back into a world where she only ever said my name.
