I sit here, just a few inches away from her, and all I can think about is how badly I want to reach for her hand. How badly I want to say every word I’ve kept locked inside all these years.
Instead, I nod. “Maybe not,” I say. “But I’d like to.”
Her eyes widen, and for a second, I think I see that girl I left behind. The one who used to believe in me. Then I see the woman she’s become. The woman who learned how to live without me.
“It’s not that simple,” she whispers, the words barely there but heavy as hell.
“I know I fucked up. But I’m here now, and I’m not going anywhere.”
A single tear slips down her cheek, and it might as well be ablade between my ribs. Sharp. Unforgiving. It steals the breath right out of my lungs.
I don’t move. I haven’t earned the right to reach for her.
Another tear follows, carving a slow, merciless path along her skin.Fuck. I can’t take it anymore. I move before I can stop myself from leaning in, my thumb brushing the wetness away with the lightest touch.
Her breath hitches, eyes glassy and tired and so full of the kind of heartbreak you don’t come back from clean.
“I can’t promise anything,” she states, voice paper-thin. “I spent years trying to forget you.”
I close my eyes for half a second. The truth of her words hits like a freight train. I know what she means.
“I know.” My voice is low. Hoarse. “I’m not asking you to pretend I didn’t hurt you. I’m not even asking you to forgive me. I just—” My hand drops to the table between us, palm up, open. “I’m just asking for you not to walk away before I get the chance to do it right this time.”
She stares at my hand like it’s a grenade. Like touching it might blow her whole life apart again. She doesn’t reach for me. Doesn’t run, either.
That sliver of stillness, that breath between heartbreak and hope, is the kindest thing she could’ve given me.
My hand just sits there, open and vulnerable between us. A little pathetic, maybe. What did I expect? That she’d reach across the table, slip her fingers into mine, and act like the last six years didn’t happen?
No. I didn’t come here for easy. Even if she can never look at me the same way again, I need her to know that I see her.
I don’t move. Don’t breathe. My heart beats so loud I can hardly hear anything else as I wait, the seconds stretching longer than they should. The silence is thick, taut, ready to snap any second.
Then slowly, cautiously, her hand shifts toward mine. Her fingers tremble, unsure, as if she’s testing whether touching mewill scorch her. I stay still, frozen in place, terrified that if I move too fast, even breathe too hard, she’ll pull away.
Her fingers hover just above mine, not quite touching. Barely there. And yet, it seems as if the whole world tilts on that breath of space between us.
My throat works around a lump I can’t swallow. I don’t dare blink.
Then—contact.
The lightest brush. Her pinky against mine. It’s nothing. It’s everything.
A touch so soft it could’ve been an accident, but I know it’s not. Her skin is cold. Or maybe it’s mine. Doesn’t matter. The second she lets her fingers slide the rest of the way, heartbreakingly slow, I look up. Her eyes meet mine. Wide. Wet. Brave.
After everything. After the silence. The pain. The fucking mess I left behind.
She’s still here.
Her hand curls into mine, just enough to say maybe I’m not too late.
I can’t believe it. All those years of stealing glances, of wanting her, of loving her in silence, and I never let myself touch her like this. Definitely never tasted her lips like I so desperately wanted to.
No, I never even reached for her hand. Not when we sat side by side in the bed of my truck, not when she fell asleep on my shoulder that one night after too much sugar and too many secrets. I kept my distance. Always pulled away before the wanting could show.
But now her hand is in mine, and I might die if I stop touching her.
My fingers close around hers, my thumb drifting over the inside of her wrist where her pulse flutters soft and fast.
