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My hand freezes on the handle when I open the door.
An electric buzz streams beneath my flesh and my heart beats so loud, I’m surprised it doesn’t fall out at my feet.
Eli stands before me in his tall, intimidating glory.
He’s wearing black trousers and a white T-shirt that doesn’t quite strain against his shoulders like before. He’s lost weight, but his face has somehow become more beautiful.
Or maybe that’s just because I miss him.
I want to kiss him.
To drown in the edges of his deep-gray eyes again. To start anew.
Despite everything.
But I force myself to remain still because I’m not that desperate.
Actually, I amthatdesperate. For a touch, a skim of his fingers, even.
I want him with everything in me. I love him with my incomplete sanity and my heart that he broke once upon atime, which only mended itself because of his unconditional care and protectiveness. The last five months were an atrocious hell because I couldn’t touch him.
I couldn’t bury my face in his neck and fall asleep smelling him.
I couldn’t see the look in his eyes when he stares at me.
All this time, I’ve been starving, pining, completely and utterly lost and heartbroken, and defeated.
And yet it was the thought of him that made me work harder on myself. I wanted to be whole so I’d no longer hurt him or be his weakness.
I wanted to get better so all his sacrifices for me wouldn’t go to waste, but I can’t admit any of that aloud out of the fear of making a fool of myself.
Again.
“What are you doing here?” I ask in a low murmur.
“Henderson said you fell, but he clearly lied.” His eyes taper as he runs them down the length of me with observant intensity. The moment ends too soon when he releases a worn-out sigh and turns around. “I’ll be out of your hair.”
His back muscles strain against his shirt as he walks across the cobbled pavement with firm steps.
Wait.
I take a step forward.
Wait.
I scream in my head.
“Wait,” I whisper, but he doesn’t hear me and keeps drifting away.
Out of reach.
Out of my life.
“I want my things back!” I shout at the top of my lungs.
He comes to an abrupt halt, but he doesn’t turn around. “Ask Sam and she’ll get it sorted for you.”
“My watch. The one that you’re wearing,” I blurt. “I bought it, not Aunt Elsa, and now, I don’t want you to wear it anymore. Give it back!”
