Cecilion's pulse hammered in his ears. He didn't know how to respond, didn't know what to respond. Her sobs pressed against his spine like waves against a brittle wall, and guilt threaded through his chest—slow and suffocating.
"I… I think we should head back out," he said carefully, beginning to pry her arms off him. "They're probably waiting—"
"No," her grip tightened.
"Paige—" he started, but she refused to let go, and as he tried to gently twist out of her embrace, her leg shifted beneath his. It all happened too fast.
A tangle of limbs. A slip of the wrist. A gasp.
And then—for some unfortunate twist of fate, he lost his balance. Cecilion stumbled forward with a muted curse, his hand catching the fabric of the tent as he fell—and landed squarely on top of her.
