Peace is. And I’ve been selfish enough to choose it—over them, over closure, over whatever forgiveness is supposed to look like.
“Have you really forgiven me?” he asks again, but this time his tone is defeated. Like he knows what my answer will be.
No,I want to say. Because have I? Does it even matter to me? Or does it just matter to him?
It almost feels disingenuous to say either yes or no. There’s no single answer that can appease or even convince anyone. Not even me.
So I shape my truth into something tangible. Let it rise in my throat, form on my lips. Quietly knowing that it has no real purpose other than to just voice the nascent realization I’ve arrived at.
“I’m not working on forgiving anyone, Ryder,” I whisper. “All I want is peace. To forget the pain even if I can’t forget that night.”
Then I pause, my gaze drifting up to the cloudy sky. A few faint stars push through the haze, stubborn and distant. “Have I accepted you? Yeah. I think I have,” I admit. “But forgiven you? Any of you…”
The words trail off. Because I don’t have them. I don’t have that clarity.
A slow breath builds in my chest before escaping in a heavy, freeing rush. “I don’t know,” I whisper. “It requires energy. And I don’t have it—to understand what forgiveness is supposed to even mean… yeah, I don’t know. I don’twantto know.”
I finally pull my gaze from the dreary sky. Staring up at his shocked face. Then quietly, I add. “Not yet anyway.”
The admission leaves me drained. Like every word cost more than I had to give. Every single syllable is heavy on my tongue.
“Acceptance,” he says with a small smile. “I can work that, love.”
The endearment hits differently this time. Probably because it was spoken so softly in the middle of my turmoil. Heat rises in my cheeks.
Confusion boiling over because Ryder flirts, a lot. But never makes a move. Every timeloveleaves his mouth, I’m bracing for something to snap.
“Love,” I repeat. “You always call me that.”
His smile drops a fraction. Then he blinks, a slow crease forming on his forehead. “Yeah, I guess I do.”
“Does it mean anything to you, or you’re just… a natural flirt?” I prod, my tone serious even if my words sound teasing.
His frown deepens, but his eyes stay locked on me. Occasionally roaming my face lazily. His expression is so intensely pensive that I forget he hasn’t answered me.
I tilt my head, squinting slightly. “Do you flirt with no end goal in mind?”
His lips part like he’s about to speak, but no words leave his mouth. For the first time, Ryder doesn’t seem to have his wits intact for a retort.
I recall the day he caged me on the kitchen counter, promising me a day of hiking in the Whiterun Bridge Trails. How his lips were merely inches away like he wanted to entice me.
That man was remarkably more confident than the shock-faced, stunned one currently before me.
Suddenly rising to the challenge, I take a step forward. “You can’t keep flirting without making good on your promises, Ryder.” I smirk, amused by how his brows shoot up to his hairline.
God. He never really thought anyone would call him out and take a wager on his actions.
Surprisingly, I’m not opposed to the idea of him following through. See if there is anything actually there.
My gaze drops to his neck, ink spreads across his throat, wings symmetrically fanning across it.
Traitorously, my mind floods with the images of Ruin’s tattoos. The ones that hold a meaning so deeply attached to me.
I shake my head, desperate to banish them, forcing myself to focus on the man in front of me.
Then squaring my shoulders, I forge on with a gambling request. “I want you to kiss me.”
“What?”
