Because I know what that looks like. And I can’t risk it.
“I’ll hurt her,” I say flatly. “And I’d rather put a bullet in my own head than do that.”
Silence settles. Heavy. Final.
“I need a shower,” I add.
Zach doesn’t push. He just nods. I step back.
Force myself to turn away. Because staying, wanting, and refusing, is already too much.
“I’ll sleep in the spare room.”
And walking away from her, from what I want, feels like the hardest thing I’ve done all night.
Because this is something I actually want.
And I’m still choosing not to take it.
For her.
Even if it’s killing me to do it.
forty-six
Liana
Waking up feels… different.
It’s the first thing I notice before I even open my eyes, before I even fully come back into myself, before the room or the light or anything external has a chance to settle around me.
My body feels, good.
Not perfect. Not untouched. There’s still soreness low in my side where the wound is healing, still a quiet stiffness if I shift too quickly, still the lingering heaviness of everything my body has been through.
But underneath that, there’s something else.
A deep, slow warmth that settles into my bones, that lingers in my muscles, that makes me aware of myself in a way I haven’t been in days.
A soft ache.
The kind that doesn’t hurt.
The kind that reminds.
My breath leaves me slowly as I stay where I am for a moment longer, letting that feeling spread, letting it sit, letting myself exist inside it without immediately analyzing it or pushing it away.
Because I know what it is.
I know where it came from.
And more than anything, I know that it’s exactly what I needed.
My eyes open slowly.
The room is quiet, soft morning light filtering in through the curtains, everything still in that calm, suspended space before the day fully begins.
And then I feel it. Warmth beside me. Solid. Familiar. I turn my head. Zach is already awake, watching me.
