I nod, but all my focus is zeroing in on getting her away. I have no idea what’s going on in her head. But I’ve read through enough statistics that the hollowness in her eyes terrifies me.
“Baby,” I say, but my voice splinters entirely when her brows furrow. “Walk back to me.Please.”
Her confusion deepens before her expression flattens when she notices the sheer panic in my voice. “I wasn’t going to jump.”
That monotone. Christ.
My breath shudders, entire chest heaving. “That’s… not what I was thinking but… baby—”
“No, I wasn’t. I really wasn’t,” she insists. Again, in that voice that lacks the Cece I’ve come to love. “There’s a lot of shit to be done. I’m not… thinking like that. Look up passive ideation.”
I already have, and it’s not even close to ridding me of this terror.
I risk a step closer to her, and she shifts enough to face me. Her back toward the railing.
“Okay,” I say, keeping my voice steady despite the dryness of my throat. “Okay, I’ll look it up. But let’s—let’s go inside? I ordered temaki and California rolls. From that place you like.”
Please. Please walk back to me.
“Kingyo?”
I nod.
“What about dinner?” she asks, finally putting a few inches between her back and the dreadful edge of my sanity. I barely let myself breathe a sigh of relief. “Are we still going to my parents’?”
“Yes, baby,” I croak, swallowing hard. “And I have a surprise for you.”
Her lips twitch, but the smile I was desperately yearning for never fully forms.
She simply nods, dragging her feet toward me.
Ask me. Ask me what the surprise is, dammit!
I know this about her. Her softened anxiety that takes over when someone tries to spring a surprise on her. There are moments she can’t handle theanticipation. She needs that ample notice.
But her lack of question is carving a ruthless wound inside my chest.
Where are you?
The moment she’s close enough, I don’t waste a second. My arms immediately wrap around her cold, rigid frame. For a terrifying moment, she stays stiff against me.
Then, slowly, her hands clutch the sides of my shirt lightly.
But she hugs me back.
It’s been days since she’s let me hold her like this. Days since she willingly stepped into my space instead of retreating from it.
Which is why I notice the difference instantly when my hands slide higher up her back.
Her hair.
It’s longer. Not by much. Just enough for the ends to brush against my fingers at the nape of her neck.
But somehow, the change feels massive. Unnervingly significant.
My body knows hers too well. Every inch of her is etched into me—her warmth, the shape of her waist, the way she shifts when she’s tired, the exact texture of her pixie cut beneath my palms.
So this? This unfamiliar length catches me completely off guard. I lean back slightly, studying her blank expression.
