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I reach out for him, my fingers trembling as they hover near his cheek. I want to offer something, anything, to ease the pain that radiates from him. He flinches, his body pulling away from my touch like it is a threat. I let my hands fall, clenching at my sides, the sting of rejection sharp.

His breath hitches, so faint I almost miss it. I don’t miss the way his gaze flickers from my hands, then back to my eyes. “You shouldn’t,” he rasps, his voice barely audible, thick with something I can’t place.

“Why?” My voice is small, almost fragile.

“Because I don’t know what I’ll do if you don’t pull away.”

The confession cuts deeper than any blade ever could. His voice, always so steady, so in control, is trembling. Barely, but it is there, unmistakable.

“I’m not pulling away.” The words slip from my lips, quieter than I intend, but resolute.

A war rages behind his eyes. I can see it, the pull of the male who wants to remain detached, to keep the walls high. And the part of him that can’t stand to be alone anymore, that needs something real. That needs me.

His hand lifts, hesitant and trembling, the male who commands armies without a flicker of hesitation is now uncertain. It is a rare vulnerability. His fingers brush mine barely, just enough for me to feel the warmth of him. The contact is fleeting, almost imperceptible.

“I don’t regret what I’ve done,” he murmurs, his voice rough, the words heavy with pain. “I regret what it’s cost me.”

“What’s that?” I ask, though I already fear I know the answer.

He looks at me then, truly looks at me. His gaze is no longer guarded. “This.” He curls his fingers around mine, pulling me closer. “You.”

The air between us crackles, charged with something that neither of us can ignore. My breath catches, my chest tightening as I fight to hold back the storm threatening to break free inside of me. “I’m still here,” I whisper, my voice barely a breath.

“But for how long?” he asks, his voice breaking, just barely. “You’ll leave. You’ll hate me. You should.” His shoulder slumps as he lets out a deep sigh.

I shake my head, feeling something crack inside me, too. I’m not ready for this, not prepared to confront the truth, but it is already spilling out of me. “I don’t,” I whisper, my words trembling. “And I won’t.”

His gaze drops, and he pulls his hand away from mine, the space between us suddenly feeling impossibly wide. “You don’t understand,” he says, the weight of his words pressing down on me.

“Then tell me,” I demand, my voice sharp. I can’t stand the silence any longer, can’t stand the distance between us.

“You should hate me,” he repeats, his voice distant, almost resigned. “No one would blame you. I wouldn’t blame you.”“Stop,” I say, my voice trembling with a mixture of frustration and anguish.

He gives me a half-smile, sad and faint, as if it takes everything in him to offer it. The smile doesn’t reach his eyes. It never does anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice low and strained, as if the weight of the words alone is unbearable.

“For bringing you into this . . . For me.”

I shake my head, my chest tight with the effort to hold back the tears that threaten to fall. Every word he speaks feels like a wound, fresh and deep. I don’t want his apology. I don’t want his guilt.

“You’re better off without me,” he adds, his voice barely above a whisper, but the pain in it is unmistakable.

Before I can respond, he turns, his figure already shifting into the shadows, the dark tendrils swirling around him, pulling him away from me, as if he is going to disappear right there, in the middle of this fragile moment.

“No!” I yell, the desperation clawing at my throat, my heart hammering in my chest. “You don’t get to leave, not like this,” I shout, my feet moving instinctively, my hands reaching out, trying to stop him from vanishing, from leaving me behind.

But the shadows don’t stop. They wrap around him, pulling him further away, their cold, unfeeling grasp swallowing him up.

And then, as if he’s been waiting for me to say something, to make a choice, he pulls me in. The shadows engulf us both, and for a fleeting, desperate moment, everything is consumed by the dark.

He kisses the top of my head, hard and slow, a kiss that feels like a final breath, like a last attempt to hold onto something that is slipping away. His fingers tangle in my hair, gripping it like he is afraid I will disappear too, breathing me in as if he needs to etch the scent of me into his very soul, to hold onto the memory of this moment for as long as he can.

It feels like goodbye.

A goodbye I’m not ready for, but one that seems inevitable.

I grab at his clothes, clinging to him with everything I have, as though if I hold on tight enough, I can stop him from leaving, can force him to stay.