His fingers were still trembling when they laced through mine — warmth against the cold weight of my skin.
I stared at him—at the bruises blooming across his cheekbone, the one under his eyes, the exhaustion carved into the lines of his face. He looked like a ghost. A beautiful, broken ghost.
I closed my eyes. I wish I could hug him.
Slowly, I pulled my hand from his. The air between us cooled instantly. His gaze lifted, searching mine like he couldn't quite believe I'd taken that tiny piece of touch away. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. Then, wordlessly, he reached out again, but only to brush a strand of hair away from my forehead. His palm lingered there, warm against my skin, moving slowly, like he was afraid I'd disappear if he blinked.
"Don't," I whispered, voice trembling. "Please don't."
