Page 208 of Irreversible

Isaac moves—slower, deeper—and it feels like an unspoken promise neither of us knows how to voice. My pulse thrums with the rhythm he’s setting, a measured pace that leaves room to breathe. Tofeel. I pull his forehead to mine, closing my eyes, letting myself sink into this unexpected shift.

It’s like we’re peeling away all the layers of armor and debris we’ve wrapped around ourselves, each kiss a muted confession. The brush of his hand down my jaw tells me something that words never could. And when the orgasm crests, brimming to a peak, I grip the nape of his neck and bury his face into the curve of my throat as I cry out. Isaac ruts into me harder, pace quickening until he finds his release, spilling into me with a low groan.

Our bodies settle, drained and spent. A smile tugs at my lips, a warm honey feeling journeying through me as I curl a piece of his hair around my finger. I wait for him to drag me into hisarms, to extend the moment and draw out the quiet intimacy that still hovers.

But he moves away, putting distance between us. The warmth fades, replaced by a familiar chill. His gaze is somewhere far away, his jaw tight, face unreadable.

I wait, my fingers still tracing the edge of his hair, hoping he’ll turn back, say something, anything to break the thickening silence. But he doesn’t. His expression hardens, his guard sliding back into place, and I feel him retreat even though he’s right beside me.

“Hey,” I murmur, inching closer. “Talk to me.”

He blinks up at the ceiling before lifting off the bed and searching for his clothes. “You still cooking?”

I swallow. “Isaac…”

“Or we could go for round two. I’ve got handcuffs in my car.”

Sitting up, I drag the bed sheets up my body and watch as he steps into his jeans and yanks them over his hips. I rub my lips together, thinking back to one of our past conversations. When he confided in me about his family. His awful upbringing.

Chicken pot pie.

Isaac never had anyone; he had no safety net, no support system. He was always in survival mode, fighting alone. Even now, I see it in his eyes—the walls he’s built to keep the world out. To keep everything good and pure at arm’s length.

All he had was Sara. And she was taken from him, ripped away like a limb torn from his body, leaving nothing but phantom pain behind. No matter how much time has passed, the loss feels raw, as if a part of him had been violently severed and never healed.

Every day is a reminder of what he couldn’t save, of what he couldn’t protect.

“I have something for you,” I say, my voice low, barely cutting through the tension.

He pauses, his hands stilling on the button of his jeans. His gaze shifts to me, wary, as though he’s already bracing for what I might say.

I inhale sharply, nerves sparking to life, then reach over to the nightstand drawer, pulling out a swirly blue teardrop that’s been with me since my darkest days. The guitar pick is featherlight inside my hand, its surface scuffed from years of use. I’ve held on to it all this time, a relic from captivity—a tiny, stubborn remnant of hope.

For both of us.

The room is dim, as rain continues to beat against the window. I slowly unclench my hand, revealing the small treasure nestled in my palm. His gaze locks onto it, his eyes widening slightly as he registers what I’m holding.

A mix of emotion washes over him—recognition, disbelief, a flicker of something deeper that seems to carve new lines across his face. For a moment, he’s stripped bare, the full weight of memories settling between us like a heavy fog.

He takes a step forward.

My breath suspends in the back of my throat as I wait. Watch. The pick shakes in my palm. I can’t read him, can’t find the words.

Isaac hesitates at the side of the bed, staring at my outstretched hand, his fingers splaying, then curling. He sinks down next to me, like his legs won’t hold him. Our shoulders graze, and I feel his muscles drawn tight as he leans forward, elbows to thighs.

Vision blurring through the sting of tears, I reach over, gently placing the pick in his hand and loosening my grip until it’s transported safely to his. His gaze locks on it, every breath heavy and labored, before he seals it in a closed palm and holds his fist to his mouth.

He doesn’t ask why I still have it, or how I managed to bring it with me.

I don’t think it matters.

I study him, unsure how to carry him through the moment. It’s big; bigger than I imagined. My eyes scan his profile, and I swear I see a glint of tears. The image is a lasso around my heart. An ambush, a tight snare. I can almost picture Sara as he described her—dark hair braided into pigtails, crystalline eyes, and a smile that changed people. I feel the warm, golden halo wrapped around her, glowing with music. Her favorite song plays in the back of my mind, a ghostly melody laced with heartbreak and love.

Wild Horses.

A tear slips down my cheek, my heart splintering.

There’s nothing to say.

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