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13
RAVEN
“Can we go, please?”I say.
Something flashes through his gaze like a bolt of lightning. It’s not anger or frustration.
It’s surprisingly a pang of affection. Yes. Pure, unadulterated affection. And it’s a ray of hope.
He doesn’t seem to hide that feeling. And doesn’t make a big deal out of it either.
It’s there, and he leaves it there, his hand now cupping my cheek while tears pool in my eyes. The worst kind of tears.
They don’t speak of pain. And they don’t speak of fury or frustration. They speak of budding feelings of attachment.
The kind that could easily mess up our deal. More than it’s already messed up.
And before I know it, the first tear drops.
Pure, perfect, and round, traveling to my chest before breaking against my skin and rolling down.
And then another one. And another one. And they draw a path across my cheek. And he notices them.
How could he not?
They are warm and obvious, and some break against his hand. And he doesn’t ask me why I cry, if I’m okay, or if I need something.
He knows the reason behind my crying. He knows that I’m not okay, and he knows what I need.
He slides his thumb across my cheek, wiping away a few tears, and spreading their warmth over my skin.
I don’t blink. Again, it would only make things worse. And I’m not sobbing. I’m like a statue crying. Although I’m warm and full of life, unlike a slab of marble or cement.
And I think of ways to turn this thing around, move away from it, and make it work in my favor.
If only I could put a spell on him and erase his memory.
He doesn’t seem to want to forget, though.
He drinks me in, listening to my breaths, locking into his memory every bit of distress, every pang of embarrassment, every shred of panic fleeting through my gaze.
He moves the other thumb, and both redirect my tears. I feel their trails on my face before sensing his lips, and I grip the handrail, so I don’t fall backward.
He kisses every tear and every inch of skin, and then my lips and eyebrows, and when I close my eyes…
He kisses my eyelids.
My eyes move underneath like little scared butterflies flapping their wings.
I don’t want him to stop, although miraculously, his kisses stop my tears from falling and telling him things about me.
He pulls me into him, and I lock my arms around him. And he kisses and strokes my hair, and if he keeps doing that, I might be out of our agreement sooner than he thought.
Or I thought. Or they thought.
But maybe… Just maybe this is a moment of reprieve. A way to make me feel better and put me back on track, although I have no idea what that means.
I like his hug. It makes up for all the hugs I’ve missed.
