A bitter laugh escapes me before I can stop it.
“You’re lying, Finn. To me or to yourself, I honestly don’t know anymore.”
And before he can answer, I walk out.
I move quickly without any real destination, just away from the tent, away from him, away from the pain threatening to suffocate me.
I cross the Games grounds, skirt around the bonfire, avoid groups of laughing people singing and celebrating.
Their happiness feels like it belongs to another universe entirely.
Eventually I collapse onto a low stone wall hidden in the darkness away from curious eyes.
I rest my elbows on my knees and bury my face in my hands.
I don’t cry.
I’m too angry to cry.
Angry at him for being a coward.
Angry at myself for believing any of it was real.
Angry at this stupid arrangement that ruined everything even though I’m the one who suggested it in the first place.
A soft bleat draws my attention.
I lift my head.
Ragnar stands a few feet away watching me with what looks disturbingly close to compassion.
“I’m not in the mood,” I mutter.
The sheep slowly approaches and presses his head gently against my leg.
It’s the first time he’s ever touched me voluntarily without trying to ram me into the ground.
And somehow, that unexpected gesture of affection from the most stubborn animal I’ve ever met finally breaks me.
The tears come silently.
Hot.
Endless.
I cry for what I lost before I even realized I had it.
I cry for the fake relationship that became far too real for me.
I cry for the man who refuses to lower his guard even while his heart is screaming at him to do exactly that.
Ragnar stays there beside me.
Quiet.
Steady.
Loyal.
