It's... weighted. Electric. Full of something I can't name.
"You should get some sleep," he says finally, but he doesn't move away.
"I can't sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see him."
"It'll get easier."
"Will it?"
He doesn't answer. Maybe he doesn't know. Maybe he has his own ghosts that visit him in the dark.
"Tell me about the blood on your hands," I say impulsively. "Not tonight's blood. The blood you carry."
His jaw tightens.
For a moment, I think he's going to refuse—going to shut down, walk out, retreat behind that wall of ice he shows the world.
Instead, he sits on the edge of the bed.
"I was military," he says quietly. "Served under a man named Salvo—Michael Webster. Did two tours overseas. Saw things. Did things." He stares at his hands like he can still see the stains. "There was a village. Intelligence said there were insurgents hiding there. We went in hard and fast, middle of the night. And when the sun came up..." He trails off.
I sit beside him, close enough that our shoulders almost touch. "What happened?"
"Civilians. Women. Children." His voice is flat, but I hear the pain underneath. "The intelligence was wrong. Or it was right, and the insurgents used them as shields. Either way, when the shooting stopped, there were bodies that shouldn't have been there."
"That wasn't your fault."
"Wasn't it?" He looks at me, and his eyes are haunted in a way I recognize. "I pulled the trigger. I gave the orders. I—" He stops, shakes his head. "I came home broken. Medical discharge. Couldn't sleep, couldn't function, couldn't figure out how to be a person anymore. Salvo found me, pulled me into the club, gave me a purpose. But the blood..." He holds up his hands. "The blood doesn't wash off. Not really."
I understand.
God, do I understand.
The things that mark us, that stain us, that we carry even when no one else can see.
"Cain told me I was nothing," I say. "Every day for three years. He said I was worthless, stupid, ugly. He said no one else would ever want me. And I believed him. I still believe him, even now that he's gone."
Leviathan turns to look at me.
His eyes trace over my face—the bruises, the swelling, the damage Cain left behind.
"He was wrong," he says simply.
"How do you know?"
"Because Iseeyou." His hand comes up, hovering near my cheek, not quite touching. "I see the woman who survived years of hell and still found the strength to walk out. Who showed up at my door covered in blood because she refused to give up. Who's sitting here talking to me like I'm human when most people can't look me in the eye." His fingers brush my jaw, feather-light. "You're not nothing, Ripley."
The words hit me somewhere deep.
Somewhere Cain's voice still echoes, still whispers its poison.
And for just a moment, Leviathan's voice is louder.
You’re not nothing, Ripley.
I don't make the conscious decision to kiss him.
One moment we're sitting there, his fingers on my jaw, his eyes holding mine.
