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I let her grieve, I let her get the excess energy off her chest, because if she doesn’t, she’ll explode.
But I don’t touch her, don’t hug her back, and I sure as fuck don’t comfort her. I keep my hands on either side of me, and my body is stiff, giving off unwelcoming vibes.
Either she doesn’t catch on to them or she doesn’t give a fuck, because she hugs me tighter. This girl has zero understanding of the wordboundaries.
I stare over her head and through the window at Kingsley’s inert body and sigh deeply, but even that is mixed with her low sniffles.
Everything is muddied with her pained voice, her soft body, and the smell of fucking vanilla. But my attention remains on the man lying on what seems like a deathbed.
For someone so smart, you did something so fucking stupid, King. You should’ve never entrusted her to me.
5
Nathaniel
Gwyneth falls asleep.
After so much struggle and standing for hours in front of Kingsley’s room, she lost the physical battle and slumped over on one of the chairs in the waiting area.
I told her that she could go home, but she vehemently shook her head, pulled her knees to her chest, and closed her eyes.
Which is why she’s about to fall forward.
I place a finger on her forehead and push her back so she doesn’t hit the ground. It’s light contact, only a damn finger, and yet it feels as if my skin has caught fire and the flames are now extending to the rest of my body.
In hindsight, I shouldn’t have let her hug me. Or I should’ve pushed her away sooner. Because now, even a mere touch brings back memories of her body pressed up against my chest.
Her slender body that I can’t stop thinking about how small it is compared to mine.
I clench my fist and close my eyes to chase away the haze. It doesn’t work. Because even though she’s out of view, her scent clings to me as stubbornly as its owner.
Vanilla was never my thing—in anything. And yet, it’s the one thing I’m able to smell.
When I’ve made sure she won’t drop, I release her. She falls sideways on the chair, still hugging her knees to her chest in some sort of self-comfort.
“Dad…” she murmurs in her sleep, a tear sliding down her cheek.
After all the crying she did earlier, one would think she doesn’t have any tears left, but grief works in mysterious ways. Maybe she’ll never stop crying. Maybe this event will change the life she knew up to this point.
It sure as fuck is making dents into my own.
I remove my jacket and place it on her. It’s supposed to be a single motion, but I’m caught off guard. Again.
Her hand reaches for mine and she grabs it in a steel-like hold, even though her eyes remain shut.
“Don’t go…”
The haunted murmur is packed with so much pain and heartbreak. Maybe it’s a plea, maybe this is her begging like she did earlier.
This is why I don’t like seeing Gwyneth and have done everything in my power to make her as invisible as possible for the past two years.
She’s no longer the innocent little kid I’ve known all her life, though the innocence is still there. She’s not the child who asked me to hide things from her father because she didn’t want to hurt him.
All that stopped when she stopped acting like a kid—toward me, at least.
She has a way of worming herself into any armor, no matter how solid and apparently impenetrable it might seem. She doesn’t even use brute force. Her methods are soft, innocent, uncoordinated even.
I wish it was a tactic or that she was being cunning. I would’ve recognized that and put an end to it accordingly. The most dooming part is that it’s genuine fucking determination.
