He doesn’t pull away, and that alone feels monumental.
“Some days,” he admits. “Some nights more than days.”
His pulse beats strongly beneath his damaged skin. I follow the line upward as my fingers graze just at the edge where the scar disappears beneath his flannel. He watches my hand move, but he doesn’t stop me.
“Sometimes,” he continues, voice slightly strained, “it feels like the fire never really went out. Not in here.” He taps his chest lightly with two fingers. “The guilt burns longer than the heat ever did.”
My thumb gently traces the edges of raised skin, a movement not to soothe pain, but to show I’m unafraid of it.
“You shouldn’t have been alone with that,” I say.
His breathing shifts, growing deeper as if he’s fighting an emotion he’s not ready for anyone to see. He leans his body closer without touching me, the space between us shrinking into something delicate.
“You’re the first person besides my brothers I’ve ever told the full story,” he confesses.
I meet his gaze, and there’s no longer any distance between us.
“Thank you for trusting me,” I whisper.
The wind shifts again, carrying the faint sound of laughter from the dock across the lake.
His eyes soften, and the tension eases just enough for me to see the man underneath the armor he wears. His hand lifts slightly, as if he’s considering reaching for me, then stops, opting to readjust his glasses instead.
We both eventually return to our canvases, but painting feels different now.
His story merges with the colors we spread across the canvas.
Nothing about him seems diminished for having said it aloud. If anything, he’s never appeared stronger.
And I suddenly feel terrified by how fast I’m falling for him.
reed
. . .
Iglance sideways at Layla curled up in the corner of my couch, her legs tucked underneath her, the hem of her sweatpants brushing the cushion as she shifts.
She leaves tomorrow.
I’d be lying to myself if I didn’t want her to go; fuck, I really don’t want her to leave. Every time she quietly laughs at something on the screen, I feel the weight of the impending silence grow heavier.
My mind keeps looping back to the exact moment from earlier; her fingertips gently smoothing over my worst scars, not with pity or hesitation, but with a care so soft it shattered something I didn’t realize was still fragile.
She touched what I hate most about myself and looked at me as if I were someone worth seeing, as if I were more than just my scars.
I try not to appear obvious by staring at her, but she catches me regardless. Her eyes meet mine in the flickering light, bright and distractingly beautiful.
“I’m boreddd,” she declares, dragging out the words with a sigh as she stretches her arms overhead.
I blink, pulled from my spiral. “Bored? We’re watching a classic.”
“It’s a horror movie,” she says. “Everything is a classic to you.”
I try not to roll my eyes. “It’s good.”
“It’s slow,” she counters, nudging my leg with her foot. “And you aren’t even watching it.”
She’s not wrong. I turn down the volume with the remote and place it on the coffee table, resting my arm over the back of the couch. “Alright,” I say. “What do you want to do?”
