Seeing him like that—raw, undone—it hurt in a way I’m not sure I’ll ever fully unpack.
But it also?—
I huff a quiet breath against his chest, the sound almost lost in the quiet of the room.
It also made something inside me settle. Because that was the moment it stopped being theoretical, stopped being “maybe.” Stopped being something I could pretend wasn’t real.
He needs me.
Not in a weak way or in a way that takes anything from him, but in a way that… matters. In a way that means something.
And yeah, that did something to me.
I shift slightly, careful not to put weight where I know he’s still healing from yesterday’s fight, and tilt my head just enough to look up at him.
His eyes are open.
“Creepy,” I murmur.
A faint curve touches his mouth. “You were watching me.”
“Yeah, well,” I say, pushing myself up just enough to meet his gaze properly, “someone has to make sure you’re still breathing.”
“I am.”
“Good. It would’ve been awkward otherwise.”
That gets a low rumble out of him. It’s not quite a laugh, but close enough that I feel it where I’m pressed against him.
Silence hangs again.
I trace the line of his chest absently, my fingers following the subtle differences in his skin, the shifts in colour and texture that I’ve come to recognise without really thinking about it. It still amazes me sometimes how quickly something so foreign can become familiar.
How quicklyhebecame familiar.
“I didn’t go,” I say quietly.
The words feel obvious. Stupid, almost. Of course I didn’t go. I’m here. But it still matters to say it.
His gaze softens, a deeper emotion moving beneath the surface. “I know.”
I huff softly. “Do you?”
“Yes.”
I swallow, emotion filling my chest that has nothing to do with fear this time. “I could have,” I admit. There’s no point pretending otherwise. The truth sits there between us, solid and unavoidable.
“I know,” he says again, his tone one of understanding.
That makes it worse… and better at the same time.
I shift fully, pushing up until I’m hovering over him, my hands braced carefully on either side of his shoulders. The movement is slow and deliberate, giving him every chance to stop me if he wants to.
He doesn’t. His hands come up instead, settling at my waist, steadying me as I move.
I look down at him, really look this time, taking in the strength of him, the quiet intensity that never fully leaves his gaze, the way he watches me like I’m something worth knowing.
“Varek,” I say, and my voice comes out quieter than I expect.
