She loves me.
She has always loved me.
But she’s lied to me.
The words sit like a dagger lodged between my ribs, a wound too deep to pull free, too painful to ignore.
I should have seen it.
The way she never truly feared me, even when she should have.
Even when I wanted her to.
And now—now that the words have left her lips, I cannot put them back.
I should say something.
I should tell her that love is a useless, wretched thing, a chain that binds and weakens, an illusion that fools even the strongest.
I should laugh in her face and remind her who I am.
What I am.
I am not a man meant for love.
Yet I have never wanted anything more than I want her.
She lays beside me, her body still tangled with mine, her breath warm against my skin.
She watches me, waiting.
Not for an answer.
But for a reaction.
She knows what this means.
She knows what she has just done to me.
I force myself to sit up, to put space between us before I lose myself completely.
If I stay here—if I let her pull me further into this madness?—
I won’t come back from it.
Her voice is soft, careful.
"Say something."
I inhale sharply.
I don’t want to say anything.
Because the wrong words will destroy this.
And the right words will destroy me.
I glance at her, my fingers curling into the sheets.