Page 43 of Hidden

But I did.

God help me, I did.

Slowly, carefully, I shifted, pushing myself up just enough that I could see him more clearly, my movements instinctively quiet, as though the smallest sound might shatter whatever fragile, impossible moment this was.

His head lifted.

And even through the darkness, even with the glass between us, I felt it the second his eyes found mine once more.

He scanned me from head to toe, his eyes flitting over me rapidly, as though if he willed it hard enough, he could see every secret I hid from him, every lie I used to destroy us. That he would be able to see through all the bullshit to get to the truth.

But my truth was buried beneath years of hurt and scars. And I knew that if he saw them, if he saw the criss-cross of my back, the knife puncture on my stomach, he would want them all to pay.

But that was a fight he could never win. And so I forced my movements to be fluid. Measured. Another lie to add to the pile.

His eyes came back to mine, seemingly satisfied with what he saw, and then everything stilled.

The world outside this room ceased to exist, the weight of it pressing in on me until I could barely breathe, until it was just him and me and the years that stretched between us, heavy and suffocating and impossible to ignore.

For a second—just a second—it felt like nothing had changed.

Like we were back there again, younger, untouched, standing on opposite sides of a line we hadn’t yet crossed.

Like I could still reach him.

Like he could still reach me.

My throat tightened painfully at the thought. Because really, that was the biggest, most dangerous lie of all.

Those days were long gone. We could never go back to what we were. What we had. It was impossible, and always would be.

We couldn’t risk ever trying to salvage something from the ruins. Not when being seen together like this would sign his death warrant. Not when I had already sacrificed everything once to keep him alive.

I forced myself to breathe, to think past the pull of him, past the memories and the longing and the weakness threatening to drag me under.

This wasn’t about what I wanted. It never had been, and I had been delusional to think we could have everything.

This was about what he needed, whether or not he understood why he needed it.

My gaze held his for a moment longer, just long enough to feel the full weight of it, just long enough for it to hurt.

Then, slowly, deliberately, I pushed myself upright.

Every movement felt heavier than it should have, like I was fighting against something inside myself with every inch I gained. My body protested, pain flaring across my back as I shifted, but I welcomed it, clung to it, used it to ground myself in something real.

Something that reminded me why this had to happen.

He didn’t move.

Not when I stepped closer. Not even when I closed the distance between us from my side, stopping just short of the window, close enough now that I could see him clearly, every line of his face, every crack in the control he was so clearly losing.

My chest tightened painfully.

He looked like he was breaking.

And for one reckless, devastating moment, I wanted to reach for him.

Before I could stop myself, my hand reached up, softly pressing against the glass, resting on top of his.