“So you don’t get cold.” I hold the towel out to her.
“Where are you going?” She narrows her eyes at me.
“You need to eat. Stay here. Drink both of them. I’ll refill them when I come back.”
She nods, unconvinced, but she takes the towel from me. I hold her waist with one arm, lifting her so she can wrap it around her. She uses my t-shirt to squeeze the excess water out of her hair then fans it out to dry.
I thread the leather handle through the window latch before I close it as she leans against the glass and closes her eyes like she’s at peace. I gently ghost my hand over the glass as I watch her, just for a moment until I feel like it’s easier to breathe.
Will she forgive me one day?
She has to. I fucking need her.
15
DELILAH
Iend up drinking half of the water by the time the window reopens, tugging the collar. My attempt at rationing it failed, but I can’t apologize when he’s exhausted, unable to open his eyes fully like the weight of his lashes are dragging his eyelids down. His muscles are more pronounced as he places a bag on the ledge, even the veins over his biceps and forearms stick out more than they used to while he adjusts the leg of his sweatpants.
Then he smiles. I’ve always loved his smile, it would change depending on who he was around. If he was uncomfortable, he’d smile without his cheeks lifting. Now his smile flickers, growing and dimming with each breath he takes like a separate entity.
He gently picks up the empty water bottle, careful not to press against the plastic sides as he says, “Drink up, koukla mou.”
I don’t know if it’s safe to talk to him with the window open, so I watch him as I take one last sip then pass it back. He tucks the bottles into his pockets as he gestures to the bag. “I made you some sandwiches.”
He’s like an amalgamation of the Kane I knew, Ghost, and this new version—carrying bone-deep sadness. The smile fades as he turns, slipping out from the drapes to refill the bottles. I stare at the spot he left, specifically at the way he’s tied the leash to the window handle.
Why is loving someone so fucking hard?
All the love I held for him was because he was better than me, he wouldn’t hurt anyone. But he did hurt me, he planned it, and he tried to kill me. Yet historic, innocent love tells me to forgive him, attempting to rationalize his actions when he’s not offering an excuse. It wasn’t Kane who did those things, it was the situation.
ItwasKane who pretended to be Asher. It was Kane who made me think I was crazy while he had a masked alter ego. He built an illusion of a life out of misplaced hate, which I can’t ignore.
He comes back, dumping the refilled bottles into the bag as he climbs out of the window to sit beside me. I examine him, picking his characteristics apart, sorting them between the old Kane, Ghost, and this new version. He places me on his thigh—the old Kane—as he closes the window behind him then slides to the side furthest from the window opening. The leash is still trapped, increasing the pressure around my neck—Ghost. But he breathes deeply and pulls the bag across as he tightens his arm around me, closing his eyes—the stranger.
“Have something to eat,” he whispers, rubbing my arm to warm me up.
“Is this supposed to be a romantic picnic?”
“Yeah, I forgot the candles.”
“Given your track record, that’s a good thing,” I fire back.
“Do you know how beautiful you looked under the flames?” He laughs lightly, shifting his thigh. “You liked it. You love the danger?—”
“The illusion of danger is different. Being left in a burning building was the reality.”
“I’m sorry.” He kisses my cheek. “I can’t undo it, but I am sorry. For everything.”
There’s no excuse to be offered. He fucked up. All he had to do was talk to me to know I didn’t send him away. The stupid Delilah offers one for him though.You didn’t remember everything, so you wouldn’t have been able to tell him what happened.I would have been able to give him enough information to prevent him hurting me.
Choosing the easier path, I take out one of the sandwiches wrapped in paper towels. I pass Kane one and take another, but he checks how the corner is folded then switches them.
“Did you drug this one?” I ask.
“No.” He unwraps his food, revealing little pock marks in the bread. It’s not very fresh either because I can hear him bite into the untoasted bread as I unwrap my own which is soft, bouncing back when I press my finger to the top of it.
“Why can’t I have it?”
