But what I don’t say is:Now that you’re here, it feels unbearable to go back.
Her fingers slide along the blanket until they find mine. “You make me feel less lonely. I hope I can do that for you.”
If I were any less controlled, I’d pull her into my arms and never let her go.
We sit for a long time, the night sounds humming around us—owls, wind in the grass, a distant whinny from a horse.
Then she says, small and embarrassed, “The scars from the accident… they’re not… pretty.”
I turn toward her. “Violet,” I say softly, “may I?”
She nods.
I brush my thumb along her cheek until I find the ridged patch of healed skin. She inhales sharply. “Does it hurt?”
“No. Just feels… different.”
“It feels like you fought,” I say. “And won.”
She trembles under my touch.
Slowly, giving her time to pull back, I press my lips to each of her eyes. She shivers, a soft sound escaping her throat.
“Jason…” she whispers.
“That part of you is beautiful,” I murmur.
She lets out a broken laugh. “You’re going to ruin me.”
“No,” I say. “You’re healing me. I hope I can do the same.”
She curls her fingers into my shirt. I stand, guiding her up with me, and she rises against my chest.
“What are we doing?” she asks, breathless.
“Dancing.”
“But there’s no music.”
“We don’t need it.”
We move to the rhythm of the night—the wind, our breaths, our pulse. She relaxes into me as we sway, and I smooth my hand down her spine.
She tilts her face up. “I could get used to this.”
So could I. And that terrifies me.
“I don’t want this to end,” she whispers.
“It doesn’t have to end tonight,” I say.
But some part of me knows it will. It has to.
And I don’t want it to.
As she sways in my arms, smelling like wine and warm breath and hope, the truth washes over me.
I might not be able to give this up.
