She crawls into bed carefully. I follow, keeping space between us, lying on my back, staring at the ceiling I can’t see.
For a long time, neither of us speaks.
Then, quietly, from the dark—
“Why do you have that blank space over your heart?”
“Notice that did you?”
She exhales roughly. “It’s a genuine question asshole.”
I stare at the ceiling, the darkness swallows me. I can feel her shift. The rustle of fabric. The soft sigh in her breath. I can pin point when her arms fold over her chest even when I can’t see her.
“The spot over my heart is blank because I don’t have one.”
She stops breathing. Her soft breaths, gone the second the words leave my mouth.
“Everyone has a heart.” Her voice is surprisingly soft.
“Not when you’re a weapon. You can’t have a heart when you have to kill. When you have to lead. Discernment, sure, but empathy, grace, a soul? No. Those are not afforded to men like me.”
Silence fills the room.
It’s louder than any gunshot has ever been.
“I’m a weapon too,” she says final, quiet, like a confession.
“I know, Beda. I noticed.”
***
I wake to breath on my neck.
Warm. Slow. Familiar in a way that sets my teeth on edge.
Ayla.
She’s curled into me, head tucked under my jaw, hair spilling over my chest. One arm is slung across my torso. The other—I go still.
Her handislow.
I peek at her face, eyes closed so her hands not by my dick on purpose.
Just heavy with sleep. Her thigh is thrown over mine, soft skin pressed where I’m already hard.
Fuck.
I don’t move right away. I learned a long time ago that stillness is a weapon. I listen instead. Count her breaths. Feel the rise and fall of her body against mine. She’s definitely asleep.
Or she’s very good at pretending.
“You pretending, Beda? Because you’re curled up on me like you actually like me,” I murmur.
A soft sigh escapes her lips. Goddamn it. She’s hurt. I can’t fuck her.
Can’tfuck her.
Don’twantto fuck her.
