Page 30 of These Tears

We stand beside the bench as my suddenly soured mood darkens further, even while I’m coaching myself not to ruin this day. But there are things he needs to tell me after all this time.

‘Why are you really here, Elias?’ I ask.

‘You know why.’ His shoulders lock. Whatever openness was there a moment ago shutters in an instant.

‘No,’ I say, lifting my head to meet his gaze. ‘I don’t want to know the reasons they stacked on your name. I want to know the real one. Why do you put up with this?’

He stares. Like he used to at the beginning, weighing reasons, truths, lies and their outcomes. And I catch him before he’s able to utter a single word to end this visit.

‘Elias Crane. Don’t you dare open that mouth and call that guard.’ I narrow my eyes at him, trying to fight the fire consuming my ribs. ‘First, you’re going to make a bloody wish and blow out your bloody candle.’

I pull him down and we both settle on the wooden surface.

‘It’s not lit.’ He cocks a brow.

‘Pretend it is.’

‘I’m bad at role-playing.’

‘Make the effort.’

‘Is role-playing another one of your kinks?’

‘Crane…’ I warn.

His eyes drop to my mouth.

‘Noted,’ he whispers, the sound vibrating through every part of me until air is scarce and heat skitters beneath my skin.

He drags in a slow breath. Keeps his eyes on mine for another devastating moment. ‘I didn’t see you last week.’

The abrupt change in subject would be welcome if it weren’t for the way his gaze lingers on my face a beat too long before he finally looks down.

I bow my head a little, absurdly relieved to find it still attached to my neck, while the rest of me is still fighting against his attention. ‘I was down with influenza.’ Rooting through your past like a thief in parish records – but I’m not handing him that yet. It takes everything I have not to tear the moment open with it.

My pulse is still misbehaving. His mouth is still far too close.

‘Hm.’ His gaze moves to the cake.

I take it out of the box.

‘Make a wish,’ I say, quieter this time.

His brows pull in. A shadow crosses his face.

‘I never got to eat my own birthday cake before.’

My jaw slackens. My heart skips a beat. Stammers. ‘Surely, you had some as a child.’

That expression, hard as prison brick… it makes my chest ache.

Then the mask slides back into place with adept ease, and the corner of his eye creases in a smile his mouth doesn’t give. ‘Do all birthday cakes look this strange?’

I let out a scoff, clinging to the deflection because it’s safer than tenderness. Safer than finding out what kindness does to him.

To me.

‘A wish.’ I hold the cake up.