The separation feels wrong. Too abrupt. Leaving me incomplete, but it is necessary. It is right.
Mine… no… hers.
I release her and space returns between us. Small. Insufficient, but better.
My breath is too fast. Unstable. I correct it, forcing it down. I reassert control, layer by layer. The directive returns.
Protect. Do not harm.
The second follows. Not directive. Not imposed.
Chosen.
Do not take. Give.
I gaze at her, assessing for damage or distress. Gauging response.
She is not harmed, not broken, or afraid. That is everything.
I lower my hands. Deliberate and controlled, then step back. One step. Then another. Distance.
I incline my head. Not in submission, but in acknowledgment of my error. Showing my regret.
Control is restored. Barely. I hold position, and wait for her response.
18
LEENA
The space between us feels wrong because it’s there at all.
A second ago there wasn’t any. No room to think, no room to question, no room to do anything except react. To respond… to give…
Now there’s air. Still. Empty.
My back rests against the stone. I haven’t moved. I haven’t quite caught up to the fact that he stepped away. That he stopped.
My lips tingle as they cool. I lick them, tasting him. I pull in a breath that doesn’t feel like it goes deep enough.
I don’t move. Because if I do, it makes it real. That it’s over. That he chose to stop.
My pulse continues racing, heat lingering along my skin where his hands were, where his body pressed close enough that there wasn’t any question about what was happening.
What he was doing. What I?—
My thoughts stall because that part isn’t as clean.
I should be angry. He didn’t ask. Didn’t wait. Didn’t—my breath catches. I didn’t stop him. I didn’t pull away. Didn’t push him back. Didn’t even try.
I didn’t want to.
My fingers curl against the stone wall, trying to fix myself in the moment as the memory of it flashes sharp. The heat. The pressure. The way everything narrowed until there wasn’t anything else except him. Except us.
I swallow. Hard.
That wasn’t fear. I know what fear feels like. This wasn’t that. I lift my gaze to him.
He stepped back. The space he created is deliberate. Controlled. Every line of his body is tight, like he forced himself piece by piece. He dips his head, not in submission or weakness, in acknowledgment.
