Page 160 of Legacy
I lie awake.
The couch is too new, too stiff. The cushions fight me, pushing back against every shift, every restless turn, until my back throbs and my neck aches. I can’t find a position that doesn’t hurt.
And it’s cold.
But that’s not why I can’t sleep.
My mind won’t stop. Won’t quiet.
The tattoos. The wings. The ruby. My name inked on his skin
My name.
Our history, bleeding across his skin in shades of red I swore I hated, etched in vows he never spoke but carried anyway.
The way he whispered:I’ll regret not coming for you sooner for the rest of my life.
And I told him to make itright.
God, what have I done?
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to push him from my mind, but he’s everywhere.
I can still feel the phantom weight of his hand against the back of my neck.
The silence in the loft is thick. Suffocating. It presses down on me until my lungs feel too tight, until my heart beats so loud it drowns out everything else.
I throw the blanket off.
I can’t do this.
I sit up, the moonlight slicing across the living room in a silver blade. I drag in a breath that tastes like cold and regret and something dangerously close to hope.
I rise, bare feet whispering across the floor, each step quiet but pulled forward by a gravity I can’t fight.
The door to the bedroom is cracked open.
I hover there, my hand on the frame, the chill biting at my skin, reminding me I could still turn back.
But I don’t.
I push the door open.
He’s there.
Lying on his back, shirtless, the blanket low on his hips, the black and red ink stark against the pale light. His chest rises and falls, slow and steady, but his eyes are open, fixed on the ceiling, like he’s been lying there counting every crack in the plaster.
I should turn around.
I should go back to the couch.
But I don’t.
I step inside.
He doesn’t move.
Doesn’t look at me.
