Page 2

For a second, I can't breathe. I can't move. I just stare at her and feel every promise I ever made her turn into something that stabs my chest, stealing my breath. I promised I'd protect her. I promised she wouldn't have to be afraid. I promised I’d love her through every ugly part of this.

And I promised, when she asked me, that I wouldn't make her suffer for me. That I wouldn't hold on past what was kind.

But every fiber of my being wants to tell her I can't. That I'm not strong enough to do this. She can hate me for it if she wants, but she needs to stay anyway because I have no idea how to be anything after this.

Instead, I slide my arm beneath her. She’s so light now. I hate that most of all.

Then, I lift her carefully, moving her closer until she's against my chest, her body fitting into the place it's always belonged. Her head settles beneath my chin, and for one second, one cruel second, my mind tries to pretend this is normal. That she’s only tired. That we're only lying here on Christmas Eve with the tree glowing and snow gathering outside, and nothing bad can touch us because I won't let it.

Her breath brushes against my throat. Small and soft, but still there.

I thread my fingers through her hair and smooth it back from her face. It's something I've done a thousand times. After showers. Before bed. While she laughed at me for being too serious. While she cried against me after appointments neither of us wanted to talk about.

My hand knows the motion better than my mind does.

I look down at her. “Are you sure?” My voice barely works.

She nods. There’s no fear or hesitation in it. Just my Raven, asking me to love her enough to stop begging for what hurts.

I bend to kiss her. Slowly and carefully. Like I have all the time in the world when I know I don't have any.

Her mouth is soft beneath mine. Warm, still. I hold there, my lips against hers, and try not to think of how many times I've kissed her without knowing I should've been memorizing every one. I should've understood that someday I'd be here, starving for one more and knowing one more could never be enough.

She smells like black vanilla because that's what I used after I washed her hair. It should make me feel better. But it doesn't. It makes everything worse.

When I pull back, I don't go far. I keep my forehead close to hers and listen to the way she breathes.

In.

Pause.

Out. There's too much silence between each one.

I close my eyes. “Okay,” I whisper.

The word nearly kills me.

I reach for the blanket at the foot of the bed and pull it around her. My hands are steady because they have to be. I tuck it carefully along her side, around her legs, and over her shoulder, making sure the cold won't reach her when I take her outside.

The cold won't matter. I know that, but I do it anyway.

She watches me, and the softness in her eyes is unbearable. For a second, my knees almost give. Because the woman who used to launch herself at me when I walked through the door, the woman who would wrap her arms around my neck and kiss me like she'd been waiting all day to get her mouth on mine, feels so fragile, I'm terrified to hurt her.

The house is dim as I carry her through it. The hallway floor creaks beneath my boots. The old photos on the wall blur as I pass them. Her scarf still hangs by the door. Her boots are beneath the bench, the ones she loved because they were warm and ugly, and she didn't care how many times I told her that.

I should move them. The thought comes out of nowhere. I should move them because she'll no longer wear them. Then I hate myself for thinking about anything after.

There is no after.

I get the door open and step outside. The cold hits me hard enough to sting, but I barely feel it. Snow falls through the dark in thick, slow flakes, gathering on the porch rail and the steps and the path that leads toward the creek. The woods are quiet around the cabin, pine branches heavy, the whole mountain tucked beneath winter like the world has made itself soft for her.

I hate that too. It shouldn't be beautiful. Not tonight.

Raven's cheek rests against my chest. I look down every few steps to make sure her eyes are still open. To make sure her breath is still there.

"I've got you,” I say.

She doesn't answer, but her fingers move against my shirt. That tiny movement is enough to keep me walking.