Not much.
Enough.
“I’m not going to burn the world down just because someone handed me matches. I’m not going to let people turn me into the worst thing that ever happened to me. I’m not going to be their story.”
My breathing shook.
“I’m going to start fresh somewhere no one knows our name. No one knows our blood. No one knows what we survived. And I’m going to write a new story.”
I touched the cold stone.
“For both of us.”
Behind me, Dylan said nothing.
But I knew he heard.
Or maybe he pretended not to.
That was kinder.
I stayed there a little longer, letting the tears come softly. Not ugly, gasping sobs. Not the kind that tore through a room and demanded witnesses. These were quiet tears. Regal tears, maybe, if pain could have posture. They slid down my face in silence while the desert wind lifted my hair and the dead kept their secrets.
When I finally stood, I swayed.
Dylan was there before I could catch myself.
His hands came to my arms, gentle, careful.
“Easy,” he murmured.
“I hate that word.”
“I know.”
The wind blew my hair across my face. Before I could move it, Dylan lifted his hand and brushed the strands back behind my ear.
His fingers lingered.
Just for a second.
Long enough for the night to notice.
I looked up at him.
His face was half-shadow, half-moonlight. Too handsome. Too sad. Too much trouble for a girl who had already been trouble’s favorite toy.
“Dylan,” I whispered, hands clutching at his muscular upper arms. He was all man. Smelled of danger and desire. His throat working as he tried to resist what my lips were offering.
He closed his eyes like my voice hurt him.
Then he bent his head and brushed his lips across mine.
Once.
Barely a kiss.
Barely anything.
