I look down at them. Watch them tremble against the armrests. Can't make them stop.
Green eyes.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Try to force the image away. Her face. Her lips. That beauty mark.
It doesn't work.
She's burned into my retinas. Into my brain. Into whatever part of me I thought had died two years ago.
Angel.
No.
She's not an angel. She's a transaction. A test. A means to an end.
I don't want her.
I can't want her.
I told her I'd never touch her. Meant it. Still mean it.
So why can't I stop seeing her?
I grab the push rims. Force my arms to move. The wheelchair rolls backward. Away from her door. Away from the light.
The hallway stretches ahead of me. Dark and empty and endless.
I push harder. Faster. My shoulders burn. My chest aches.
Doesn't matter.
I need distance. Need to get back to my room. Need to lock myself away and forget what just happened.
Forget the way her skin looked in the lamplight.
Forget the curve of her spine.
Forget those green eyes staring up at me like she could see straight through to my bones.
Promises, promises.
Her text echoes in my head. Mocking. Challenging.
She has no idea what she's doing. No idea who she's dealing with.
And neither do I.
Because the man who wheeled down this hallway ten minutes ago was angry. Controlled. Certain.
The man wheeling back is none of those things.
I reach my room. Slam the door behind me. Sit in the darkness and try to breathe.
My phone glows on the bed where I threw it.
I don't touch it.
Don't trust myself to.
