Chapter Twelve
The Thing We Reach For
Raven
You don’t reach for someone when you’re whole.
You reach when something inside you is fraying and you need proof that you’re still connected to the world in a way that hurts enough to be real.
The compound is too quiet tonight.It’s not peaceful or safe.It’s quiet like a held breath that doesn’t know whether it’s about to become a scream.Ghost is stable but still unconscious, Cherry is out of surgery and will be fine, eventually, and the rest of us are on edge, our nerves pulled tight by near-misses and bad timing.
And Savage hasn’t touched me since the first blood was drawn.I’m not sure if it’s accidental or deliberate, but that absence sits heavier than his hands ever did.
In the early morning hours.I find him where I know I will, his room, the lights down low, his cut hanging from a hook beside his door, his sleeves rolled up like he’s been trying to scrub the day out of his skin and failing.He looks up when I enter, eyes dark and tired and sharp all at once.
“Raven,” he says.
“You didn’t come earlier,” I say.
“No.”His voice is carrying the weight of his decisions.
“You didn’t check on me.”
“No.”
The space between us is thick with everything we’re not saying, about danger, about cost, about the way the world keeps testing how much we’re willing to lose before we flinch.
“I don’t want to talk,” I say.
He studies me carefully.“That’s not usually true.”
“It is now.”
Silence stretches.Then he nods once.“Okay.”
I cross the room and stop in front of him.He doesn’t stand or reach for me.He waits like he’s bracing for impact without knowing what direction it’s coming from.
“Touch me,” I say.
His jaw tightens.“Raven...”
“Not gently,” I cut in.“And not like you’re trying to fix something.”
His eyes flicker.“This won’t solve anything.”
“I know,” I say.“And I don’t want it to.I just want to forget everything.”
That’s the truth.I want the friction.The heat.The sharp reminder that we still want each other even when we don’t know how to stand in the same space without cutting ourselves open.
“Tell me to stop whenever...”he starts.
“I won’t.”I cut in.
He stands then, slow and deliberate, and the air shifts with the movement.His hands come to my hips, firm, grounding, and the moment his fingers press into me, my breath stutters.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
