The touch is kind, perfectly timed, and it fucking ruins me.
It’s the touch from a man I love deep down, and for a beat I’m a naive child again, believing that affection proves love, not danger.
My chest loosens and a foolish, traitorous faith blooms where my fear lives.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Blaire,” he says, gentle and sincere, and all the reasons I should run gather like cold stones in my stomach.
I tell myself I’m not weak, that I won’t be fooled, but the memory of better mornings is louder than the hurt.
Suddenly, he dips, and before I can react, his wet, soft lips crash against mine, stealing the breath straight from my lungs.
The world seems to tilt, and every argument, every ounce of fury I built to protect myself, shatters in the heat of his mouth.
He hasn’t kissed me in weeks, maybe months. Time blurred long ago, and the shock of it burns through me. For a single heartbeat, I’m not here, I’m somewhere else. Back when he saved me, back when his love didn’t hurt, and when his touch didn’t feel like a cement block was dragging me down to my grave.
When his lips peel away from mine, we linger close, eyes searching each other’s like we might find a reason to make this work.
Then he tilts his head toward the house.
“Let’s just talk about it,” he says quietly.
“And if we can’t work it out anymore? What if we’re too far gone?” I whisper, my eyes dropping to his lips.
“Then, I’ll let you go,” he responds immediately, and my gaze shoots up to his.
Holding steady eye contact, I take a moment to think while searching his gaze, wondering if it would be worth hearing him out.
Because this is our marriage after all.
Then, foolishly, I nod before moving past him. And as I get closer to the door, I hear him gradually trailing behind me.
???
The foyer swallows the rain’s noise as he closes the door, and the warmth hits me, a false hug of home.
With my hand on the banister, I steal a glance to the side, and see he’s still by the door, motionless, with steady eyesfixed on me.
“I’m going to get out of these wet clothes,” I say, my voice carrying none of the tremor I feel inside. “Then we can talk.”
With that, I turn away and begin to climb the stairs, but he doesn’t follow me, he only watches my every move, letting me go.
???
When I reach the bathroom, I let the door click shut behind me, pressing my forehead against the cool black wood.
My gaze lingers on the silver knob for a second, then I draw a deep, shuddering breath, kicking off my heels, the relief brief before I step toward the large mirror.
I stop in front of it, taking in the reflection. My eyes are dark, rimmed with smudged mascara, my black hair clings to my face in damp strands, plastered by the relentless rain.
The woman staring back looks strange—soaked, fragile, and defeated. I hold the same weight in my eyes as I did when I was a little girl.
The bathroom is quiet, but the silence isn’t respite. It’sfull of all the words I’ve swallowed, and all the screams I never let escape.
Going over what I need to say to him, I know I have to make sure he knows that the way he has twisted my heart has almost drained it of all its goodness.
A goodness he helped build once upon a time.
I force the words into my mind, talking to the pieces of myself that used to fight back, that refused to bow to bullies, or to men like this. The part that remembered my father, and the way he left scars inside me I swore I’d never let happen again.
