Theo’s lips curve in the faintest smile, one so subtle it feels like it was meant only for me. His posture softens, almost imperceptibly, as if he’s accepting something I haven’t had the courage to name.
“Yes,” he agrees quietly, “but not long enough to change the truth of this.”
His thumb glides across my pulse again. Not a tease. Not a claim. Just a touch that feels like a truth he’s offering without saying it aloud.
My chest aches with something I don’t dare unravel.
I don’t move away this time.
I can’t.
Not when his touch feels like the first honest moment I’ve had in days.
Theo doesn’t let go.
His fingers remain lightly pressed to my pulse, the warmth of his touch soaking into my skin in a way that feels far too intimate for how calmly he holds himself. For all the restraint in his posture, there’s a softness in the way he tilts his head, just slightly, as though he’s listening to something only he can hear. Something inside me.
Before I realize what’s happening, the space between us shifts again. Not with a movement, not with words, just a quiet pull that draws us into the same gravity.
Theo leans forward first.
It’s small. Barely a breath. A closeness measured in inchesrather than miles. The kind of movement someone makes when they aren’t sure if they’re allowed, but want to be near anyway. The faint brush of his knee against mine anchors me, freezes my lungs in place. He’s close enough that I can see the pale lashes framing his unfocused eyes, close enough that I can feel the gentle exhale warming the space between our mouths.
It hits me suddenly, painfully:
How long before it all fractures?
Because everything does. It’s the one thing in my life I can rely on, that nothing good lasts long enough to be trusted.
My breath shudders. The ache in my chest tightens, and for one fragile heartbeat, I think, gods help me, that he’s going to touch his forehead to mine. That he’s going to let the moment become the thing we’ve both been drowning under.
His free hand lifts, not toward me, but near me, hovering inches from my cheek as if mapping the warmth of my skin. His fingers tremble ever so slightly, pausing midair as though he’s weighing the consequences of crossing a line neither of us have named.
“I can hear you thinking,” he murmurs, voice low enough to unravel me. “And it feels… loud.”
A quiet, unsteady laugh escapes me, half breath, half confession.
“It’s been a complicated day,” I manage, though the words fall thin.
Theo’s face softens in a way that feels like an unexpected blow. He leans closer still, close enough that if he weren’t blind, he’d see every flicker of confusion running across my face.
“Liam,” he whispers, voice steady but threaded with something unmistakably tender. “I don’t need to see to know when someone is hurting.”
My throat tightens. His words land too deeply, too precisely, like he’s reaching for something I’ve spent years burying beneath walls and training and the need to always be the protector.
His forehead almost touches mine.
Almost.
But the universe never gives us more than an almost.
A soft creak echoes from the stairwell, so delicate most people wouldn’t hear it. But Theo stiffens instantly, head snapping toward the sound, all traces of openness shuttered in a heartbeat.
And I draw back too fast, guilt and fear tangling in my chest. Another fracture. Another moment slipping through my fingers before I can understand it.
Theo’s hand falls away from my wrist, though not completely, his fingertips linger a second longer than necessary, a silent admission he doesn’t say aloud.
“Someone’s coming,” he murmurs, voice suddenly composed again. “We’ll… talk later.”
