A sob punches out of him, sharp and cracked and not meant for me. “I waited.” His breath catches. “I waited in the quiet place.”
His grip slides to my throat, not cruel, not hard—just enough to keep me there.
“I waited for you to remember me.” His thumb drags over my lip again, softer now. “And now you do.”
His lips press to mine, slow, delicate, like I’m something holy.
Like I’m something he thought he’d never touch again.
“And now you’ll stay.” His forehead rests against mine. “You’ll stay this time.”
I nod because I don’t know what else to do, because I think I mean it. I think some part of me remembers the quiet place too.
His breath steadies.
His grip softens.
And I think maybe—Maybe I’ve already been waiting for him too.
His breath stays pressed to mine like he’s afraid if he lets go, I’ll forget him again.
Like I’ve done this before.
Like I’ve already left him before.
His thumb traces the seam of my lips, soft, steady, careful.
His other hand never leaves the chain.
“You’ll stay this time,” he whispers.
I nod.
“I’ll stay.”
But the words feel strange in my mouth.
Like they belong to someone else.
Like I’ve said them before.
His mouth drags over my cheek, slow, desperate, like he’s trying to memorise me.
“You promised.” My stomach knots. “You said we’d stay in the quiet place.”
His breath catches like he’s remembering it right now.
Like he’s still there.
“You said if we were quiet, he’d never find us.”
I swallow hard.
“I don’t remember that.”
His thumb presses against my lip until I can’t speak.
“You do.” His eyes flick to mine, sharp, steady, wild. “You remember.” His grip tightens in my hair. “You just don’t want to.”
