Page 26 of The Ache That Stayed

She was covered, safe, untouched.

Lie.

Not untouched. But not ruined either.

I tucked the blanket around her and stepped back until the bed wasn’t within arm’s reach. I had stood at the foot of the bed for a long time, mind disarrayed, not breathing properly. Just existing in the aftermath of almost being the worst version of myself.

Then I left the room.

Because staying in her presence would end badly.

So, I fixed things. Straightened cushions. Moved objects out of walking paths. Checked the locks twice.

Fixing the room was easier than fixing what she did to my head. Order was the lie I told myself when chaos lived under my ribs.

I sat on the couch and smoked until my ribs screamed and my lungs burned, because if I stayed in the same room, I wouldn’t be able to hold back the line I drew. So I stayed where I could hear her breathe but not feel her skin.

Now, I stood in the house which felt too quiet, except for the odd buzzing of the refrigerator.

I worked my way with the bandages. The storm had finally arrived—rain came down hard in slanted sheets like a warning, the storm outside echoing the one I carried in my chest. I knew where everything was. Two nights was enough to memorise its bones, its breath, its secrets, if you paid attention.

I heard her before I saw her. Soft steps. Controlled breathing. Knife sliding free of wood. Still dangerous. Even half-asleep.

Smart girl.

Her scent hit me a second later. Soap. Skin. Warmth. Something sharper underneath—adrenaline, maybe. Something entirely her, cutting through smoke and sweat like a blade.

Intoxicating.

I didn’t turn.

I let her come closer. Let her believe she had control.

Cold steel pressed against my neck.

“Don’t move,” she said.

Her voice steady.

Good. She was thinking.

Never show weakness to an enemy.

But I knew her better. Her pulse was racing. I could hear it. I stilled anyway. Then slowly lifted my gaze to the window reflection. Our eyes met as lightning lit up the sky outside.

Of course it was lightning.

Then recognition hit her like a physical thing.

Now it was time for her to go rigid.

I turned slowly, let her see me properly. Let it land. Let it hurt if it had to. Let her see everything. The bruised mouth. The split knuckle, tired eyes.

She froze. Completely.

Her breath was gone, but the knife was still at my throat, a slight tremor in her hand that she tried to hide.

And me?