Page 75 of Fire and Silk
“I just wanted to hear him out,” I murmur into his shirt.
I feel his breath stutter against my temple.
He pulls back just enough to look at me. “What did he tell you?”
I open my mouth. The words line up inside me, but none of them make it past my lips. I shake my head.
He softens, brushing a hand down my arm. “It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything tonight.”
He stands, moves to the side table, and opens one of the drawers. “There’s towels in the bathroom. You can shower. When you’re ready, just rest. Tomorrow we’ll head back to your old place, gather your things, then work on your passport.”
I nod, but I don’t move yet.
“Can we stay in Australia?” I ask, finally.
He stops folding the towel. Looks at me. “No.”
“Why not?”
He exhales slowly, placing the towel down. “Because it’s not safe.”
He pauses. Chooses his words carefully.
“You’re too weak to defend yourself, Lira. It’s not going to be good for you.”
My spine stiffens. I look at him—not in confusion, but in something far closer to insult.
“Too weak?” I ask. My voice comes out low and dry.
He realizes immediately. His hand lifts, palm up, like he’s trying to reel it back.
“That’s not what I meant,” he says quickly. “I didn’t mean you’re—Lira, I just meant I don’t want you in danger. You’ve been through too much. You need rest, not another battlefield.”
But I’m already standing.
I walk past him before he can reach for me again. My feet carry me to the bathroom, but not because I want to shower.
Because I need space. Because I can’t breathe with him trying to patch me up and hold me still in the same moment.
The door closes behind me with more force than I intend. I don’t lock it. But I hope he knows not to follow.
The bathroom is cold and clinical. Hotel lighting always feels like interrogation. I turn the tap and steam begins to cloud the glass.
I strip silently, step into the shower, and let the water run over me. I don’t move to adjust it. The sting feels earned.
My hands press against the tiled wall.
And the tears come.
Not sobs. Not whimpers. Just a stream of heat, the kind that doesn’t make sound.
He was right.
Not about the danger.
About the weakness.
Even with Mico—especiallywith Mico—I am still that girl clutching many pills in a locked bathroom, hoping the knock on the door comes late.
