The sound that escaped me wasn't a word.
It was a confused, breathy puff of air—the auditory equivalent of a question mark.
Hurt me?
The thought was so absurd, so utterly alien to the reality of the last hour, that my brain couldn't form a proper response. No one had ever apologized to me after something like this… Not even when it hurt.
And that's when the memory, the one I kept locked away in a cold, dark box, broke free.
Max. A night a year ago. It had been clumsy and painful, a sharp, tearing sensation that had made me yelp. When we were done, I'd curled away from him, biting my lip against the stinging throb. The sheets were smeared with blood. Not a lot, but enough. I saw his eyes flick to the stain, then to me, his expression one of pure annoyance.
"Seriously?" he'd sighed, as if I'd spilled wine on his favorite shirt. "You're making a mess."
And I, stupid and desperate for his approval, had been the one to apologize. "I'm so sorry, Max. I don't know why… I'm sorry."
