I refused to.
The Hilux idled on the side of the road, engine rumbling low beneath us, the sound filling the silence that stretched between us.
Heavy.
Alive with everything we refused to say.
He reached for my face like I was something delicate.
For a second, I didn’t move.
Then his fingers closed around my wrist.
Just firm enough to guide my trembling hand away from my jaw.
The contact sent a jolt through me anyway.
His thumb brushed the underside of my wrist once—light, almost absent-minded—before he realized what he was doing and let go.
Too quickly.
As if the touch itself had surprised him.
My hand hovered in the air for a moment before dropping into my lap, still shaking.
I hated that he could see it.
His gaze shifted until it landed on my jaw.
On the marks.
Five distinct fingerprints already blooming across my skin, angry and dark, spreading like bruises that had decided to make themselves known.
For a moment, his expression changed.
“My hand left bruises,” he said, the sharpness gone from his tone. “I didn’t realize how tightly I was holding you.”
Didn’t realize.
The words echoed in my chest like something hollow and mocking.
I stared at him for half a second longer, then reached up and flipped down the passenger visor mirror with more force than necessary.
The small rectangular glass snapped open, catching the pale morning light and throwing it across my face.
I angled it slowly until the reflection came into focus.
My breath hitched.
There they were.
The five bruises.
Clear. Sharp.
Already turning from red to a deep, ugly purple, like something had been stamped into my skin and left to settle.
The shape of his hand was mapped across my jaw, perfectly imprinted in a way that made my stomach twist.
