I do not.
Her fingers touch the scar along my cheek with such care that the room changes shape around us. Her hand is warm. Soft. Human. She traces nothing, only rests her fingertips where the old wound cuts through scale, and the tenderness of it does what violence never could.
It makes me weak.
“You are not cursed,” she says.
I close my eyes.
Her palm settles more fully against my face. My body bends toward her by a fraction. She smells like flour, sugar, lemon cleaner, and rain-damp hair. Her heartbeat is fast. Mine are worse.
“You do not know that,” I whisper.
“I know enough.”
My eyes open.
She is closer than I realized. Her face is tipped up to mine, eyes bright, mouth parted slightly as if she has more words but cannot find them. The bakery hums around us, warm and dim and closed to the world. Rainwater drips somewhere outside. The display case breathes cold air at our side.
My hand lifts before thought permits it. I stop short of touching her waist.
She sees.
Neither of us moves.
The distance between us becomes a living thing.
I have faced plasma fire, boarding actions, urban collapse, and the long dark of tunnels full of ghosts. None of them frighten me like the soft invitation in Evie’s eyes.
“We should not,” I say.
Her fingers remain on my cheek. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You are thinking loudly.”
That makes her laugh, barely, breathless and shaken. “You’ve been spending too much time with Darlene.”
“Yes.”
Her thumb moves once along my scar.
I almost make a sound.
Instead I step back, slowly, because if I do it fast, it will feel like rejection, and if I do not do it at all, I do not know what happens next. Her hand falls away. The loss of it is immediate and brutal.
Evie wraps her arms around herself. “Sorry.”
“No.” The word comes sharper than intended. I soften it badly. “Do not be sorry.”
“You looked like you needed…” She stops, cheeks coloring. “I don’t know what I thought you needed.”
I know.
I fear it too much to say.
“I should check the rear door,” I tell her.
“Right.” She looks away, blinking quickly. “Locks. Very romantic.”
