Chapter 11
The Space Between Heartbeats
"Never."
The word was final and absolute. It was not only a refusal but a vow, settling into the charged air between them like a stone dropped into deep water, sending ripples through the space they shared. It crackled with the weight of everything he had ever felt for her, every moment he had denied himself, every desperate thought that had clawed at him in the dark when she was not there.
His fingers found the delicate lace of her bralette, curling around the soft fabric until it stretched taut beneath his touch. He pulled it away with agonizing slowness. Not in a rush, not in the frenzied, clumsy need of a man who simply wanted something gone, but with the deliberate care of someone unwrapping the most precious thing he had ever been given. Every movement spoke of possession and reverence, of the certainty that once he had her like this, there would be no putting her down again.
The lace slipped from his grasp and fell to the floor, forgotten. She shivered. Her breath caught, her back arching in a movement so slight it could have been instinct, a reaction her body betrayed without her consent. The cool air found her newly exposed skin, teasing her, but he knew it was not the air that made her tremble. It was him. It was the heat of his body so close to hers, the steady press of his presence, the weight of his stare. His hands skimmed over her bare ribs, slow and certain, before rising to cup her from behind. His fingers spread wide, a claim, a promise, a quiet act of worship.
He squeezed gently at first, just enough to feel the soft give of her, to draw out the smallest shift in her breathing, to feel the subtle melt of her body into his touch. The way she softened for him undid him in ways he would never admit aloud. His thumbs brushed over the peaks of her breasts, and his palms, rough from years of holding a wand and not a woman, found perfect contrast in the warmth of her skin. He kneaded her in slow, deliberate motions, as if exploring a map he intended to memorise for the rest of his life.
Her nipples tightened beneath his fingers, stiffening into sensitive peaks. He rolled them between his thumb and forefinger, pinching, teasing, testing her tolerance and her need, watching every flicker of response in her face. Her body jolted. Her hips shifted forward as though she were searching for him, seeking friction, craving more than what he was giving.
And then she made the sound that broke him.
She moaned.
It was not restrained. It was not the careful, guarded sound of a woman holding herself back. It was raw, unpolished, wrecked in a way that stripped the air from his lungs. It slid through him like a curse designed to undo him completely, a low, sinful note that seemed to rise from somewhere deep inside her and pull at something primal inside him.
That was the sound that ended him.
It cracked whatever was left of his control, shattering it without mercy. He had thought he could keep this measured, thought he could draw it out and make her beg, thought he could match her game for game until she surrendered. The moment that moan reached him, all of that was gone. Every fragile thread of patience snapped, leaving only the sharp pull of need that narrowed his world to this single moment.
She arched into him, her body answering his without hesitation, without thought, without the armour she so often carried. She was giving in. She was falling. She was surrendering to something bigger than both of them, something they had never been able to stop.
If he was going to lose himself, he would not lose alone.
His mouth began its descent with slow, unyielding purpose. Each kiss he pressed to her skin was deliberate, a brand of heat that lingered long after his lips moved on. He traced the delicate curve of her throat, tasting the rush of her pulse. He lingered in the hollow of her collarbone before dragging his teeth lightly across it. He marked her with every touch of his mouth, as if writing her into his body so he could never forget.
He followed the path lower, over the swell of her breasts, down the smooth expanse of her stomach, letting his mouth map her with a devotion that felt almost holy in its focus. By the time he reached the point where there was nowhere left for her to hide, his breathing was heavy, his eyes fixed on her like she was both salvation and damnation.
He stayed there for a moment, kneeling before her, looking up in a way that carried both reverence and hunger. She might have been something divine. She might have been something he was willing to sin for. And if he ruined himself in the process, then so be it.
Every touch, every kiss, every lingering brush of his lips against her skin was a vow. It was silent, absolute, and unshakable, a promise that she was his, that she had always been his, that she would always remain his no matter how much she fought him or how many times she tried to deny it. He had let her run before. He had let her push him away, had even allowed her to pretend this thing between them was not inevitable. But that ended now. He was finished letting her pretend. Finished letting her lie to herself.
His fingers curled around the waistband of her knickers, his grip steady, deliberate, drawing the delicate fabric down with unbearable slowness. Each inch revealed her further to the cool air, to his gaze, to the heat of his breath brushing over her most sensitive skin. His mouth followed where his hands had been, pressing soft, deliberate kisses along the inside of her thighs, lingering on each newly uncovered patch of skin. There was reverence in the way he moved, an almost painful tenderness in the pace he kept, and yet there was cruelty too, the kind that came from knowing exactly how to drive her mad. He kissed her as though she were something holy, something meant to be worshipped, something he needed to memorize with his mouth because he could not believe she was real.
When she was finally bare before him, with nothing left to hide behind and nowhere left to go, his hands were already there, gripping, exploring, claiming. One large, warm palm pressed against the soft heat between her thighs, cupping her fully, holding her, learning every contour. He treated her as if she were something rare and precious, as if he were cataloguing the way she trembled beneath him. His thumb traced a slow path over her slick folds, teasing, testing, learning every small detail of what belonged to him.
"Oh, doll," he murmured, his voice thick and frayed with hunger, carrying a weight that was both dark and insatiable. The sound of it alone sent a shiver through her, sharp and involuntary. His fingers circled her clit with maddening patience, barely touching, offering almost nothing, tormenting her with the control of a man who knew precisely how to take her apart piece by piece. "Already dripping?"
Her body betrayed her before her thoughts could form into denial. Her hips tilted, her thighs pressed toward him, seeking something more. She needed more, though she could not yet admit what that meant.
"No…" she breathed, the word little more than an exhale, weak and unconvincing. It was a protest that neither of them believed, a flimsy shield that had already crumbled beneath the weight of her own need.
A slow, knowing curve touched his mouth as his gaze lifted to hers. There was amusement there, sharp and cutting, but also triumph, the quiet certainty of a man who already knew he had won. They both knew the truth. They both knew she had already surrendered.
"Liar."
The word fell from his tongue like a sin, low and deliberate, as his hand finally gave her what she had been silently begging for.
His fingertip brushed over her clit in a slow, deliberate circle, pressing just enough to send a jolt of sensation ripping straight through her. It was measured, precise, the exact amount of pressure to make her breath catch, to make her thighs quiver, to make her understand with terrifying clarity how completely doomed she was. There was no randomness in the way he touched her. It was calculated, methodical, the kind of patience that hurt. It was the restraint of a man who could end her with one rough movement but chose instead to dismantle her slowly, piece by piece, because he wanted her to feel every second of her own undoing.
And when he finally let it change, when the teasing became real, when it was more than a brush, more than a cruel promise, more than the slow burn meant to keep her writhing, her body broke apart under him.
Her thighs tried to clamp shut, her hips twisted toward him, desperate for more, but he kept her exactly where he wanted her. There was no escape, no place to hide from the way he was pulling her to the brink. He wanted her to drown in this, to feel every aching pulse of need, to understand that she was not getting away until he had ruined her completely.
A gasp tore from her throat, sharp and unsteady, turning into a broken little whimper as her hands clenched against his shoulders. Her nails pressed in hard enough to leave half-moons in his skin, her grip frantic, as if he was the only thing holding her together. Letting go would mean falling, and if she fell, she knew she would never stop. She knew that if she surrendered entirely, there would be no return, no safe ground left between them.
She was so sensitive, so hopelessly responsive, and so entirely his. Even if she refused to say the words. Even if she fought it with every inch of her pride. Even if she convinced herself she could still walk away. He could feel the truth in her every movement. In the way her thighs trembled, in the stutter of her breath, in the helpless arch of her body every time his fingers shifted. She was already begging in silence, already teetering at the edge, already giving him everything without realizing it.
And he wanted more. He wanted the sounds she had never made for anyone else. He wanted to know exactly how her voice cracked when she came. He wanted her moans unrestrained, wanted the sharp intake of breath when she broke, wanted to hear his name spill from her mouth like a prayer she couldn't stop herself from saying.
His own body thrummed with the urge to consume her completely, to rip away the last layers of resistance, to drag her down with him into the place where neither of them would ever be free again. His hands tightened on her hips, grounding her, keeping her still, keeping her exactly where she belonged. And then he shifted, lowering his touch, changing the angle just enough to make her jerk, just enough to make her gasp when he slid a long, deft finger inside her.
The slick heat of her gripped him instantly, and it nearly undid him. A violent shiver went through his chest, pulling a low groan from deep in his throat, the kind that came from pure hunger. He had to grit his teeth, had to force himself not to imagine what this would feel like wrapped around his cock instead of his fingers.
Her breath caught in a sharp, broken cry. Her back arched away from the couch, her nails digging deeper into his shoulders, her body clenching around him so tightly he thought he might lose himself entirely if he didn't pace it.
"Fuck, love," he groaned, his voice raw and thick with something he didn't have a name for. She was too tight, too warm, too perfect, and he had barely begun.
He set a rhythm that was deliberate and slow, dragging his finger back almost to the edge before pushing in again, giving her just enough to keep her body chasing him, never enough to satisfy. Her breathing fractured, her control slipped, her body moving before her mind could form a protest.
She hated this, hated needing him this much, hated how easy it was for him to take her apart with almost no effort at all. And worst of all, she hated that her body had already turned traitor, pleading for more with every tiny shift.
Before she could recover, before she could rebuild even a scrap of defiance, he slid a second finger inside her. The stretch was perfect and devastating all at once.
The sound that broke from her lips was nothing short of ruin.
It was loud, raw, completely unrestrained. The sound burst out of her, echoing through the room until it seemed to press against the walls and seep into every inch of space between them. It was not just a reaction. It was a confession she had no control over, the kind of sound that burned through every trace of denial, stripping her bare in a way no touch could. It made his blood run hot and vicious. It made him harder than he could stand, made him almost feral with the need to hear it again, to drag it from her until she could barely breathe.
Her hands shot to his shoulders, clutching hard enough that her nails pressed deep, grounding herself against the only thing that felt solid. She gripped him like he was the last thing keeping her from falling apart completely.
He could feel her tightening around his fingers, could feel the helpless, frantic way her body clung to him. She responded like she knew him in ways her mind would not admit, like her body had been shaped to fit his touch, like she had been waiting for this all along without knowing it.
And he knew exactly how to break her.
His fingers curled inside her, at first slow, almost coaxing, searching for the spot he already knew was there. Then he pressed against it, just enough to make her jolt. Her thighs trembled. Her breath caught, sharp and unsteady, like she was fighting a sob. Her nails scraped down his skin, her back arching, surrendering in spite of herself.
Just as she started to tip over that line, just as the fight bled out of her and her body began to feel instead of resist, his thumb dragged over her clit. Slow. Devastatingly slow. Agonizing circles that sent a hard shiver through her entire body.
It was too much.
It was nowhere near enough.
It was exactly what she needed.
Her thighs tried to close around his hand, a desperate attempt to trap him there, to keep him from pulling away, but he was stronger. His grip held her wide open, forcing her to take it all, forcing her to accept what he was giving her whether she was ready or not. And she was not ready. Her control was slipping too fast. Her breath came in soft, fractured gasps, each one a small surrender he could feel all the way down to his bones.
"Tell me you'll be mine."
His voice was low and rough, a command wrapped in heat and danger, the kind of tone that left no real choice.
"No…"
It was nothing more than a breath, too weak to even sound like a refusal. The words fell apart before they could take shape, especially when her hips pushed forward, chasing more of his touch, contradicting everything her mouth tried to say.
The slow curl of his lips was pure satisfaction. He had her. She had no idea how completely she had given herself away. His thumb pressed down harder on her clit, the pressure exact, devastating, enough to rip a sharp cry from her throat. Her whole body jolted, shaking, unsteady, and he had to adjust his stance to keep her from slipping. Her hands were wild now, grabbing at his shoulders, his arms, the wall behind her, anything that might keep her tethered while her chest rose and fell far too fast.
"Tell me you'll be mine or I will stop."
The words were wrecked but lethal, a promise as much as a threat. She did not ignore it. She could not. She was teetering on the brink, so close that a single shift of his hand would send her straight over. And still, she fought.
"Please…"
It was a whisper that trembled against his skin, a plea without shape, an admission that cracked through her defenses in ways she had not meant to allow.
"Say it."
"No, no… please."
Her voice broke, gasping and desperate, and the sound lit something hungry and violent inside him. But it still was not enough.
Draco went still.
And then he withdrew his fingers.
Stopped entirely.
She gasped at the sudden loss, a sharp sound that cut through the quiet, her whole body jolting as if he had struck her. Her hands flew to his wrists on instinct, clutching hard, trying to pull him back, trying to make him keep going, trying to force him to finish what he had started. Her grip was desperate, her fingers curling tight enough to ache, but he did not move. He stood there, unyielding, the warmth of his touch replaced by a void that felt colder than the air between them.
He did not give in. He did not offer her even a fraction of what she was begging for.
She had been there on the very edge, balanced so close to breaking that one more breath, one more stroke, one more whisper from him would have sent her straight over. She had been seconds from falling, from surrendering, from losing herself in him entirely, and he had taken it away. Because she had not said it. Because she still refused to give him the words he wanted, the words he needed, the words that would make her his in a way nothing else ever could.
She had to give him that last, unshakable truth.
Or she would get nothing at all.
When he pulled back, leaving her aching and trembling on the cold floor, the emptiness struck her like a physical blow. It seeped into her bones, an unbearable hollow that wrapped itself around her chest until her breath came shallow and sharp.
That was when she broke.
Not in a quiet, dignified way. Not in some slow unraveling she could pretend was graceful. She shattered all at once, violently, without warning. The collapse was ugly and complete, the weight of everything she had fought to deny crashing down so hard it left nothing standing. Her resolve, the shield she had clung to for so long, was dust at her feet.
Her knees gave out first. She folded in on herself as if the strength had been ripped from her limbs, as if her body no longer saw the point in standing when the fight was already lost. She hit the floor hard, the sound sharp against the silence, her palms splaying on the wood. Her fingers flexed, searching for something solid to hold onto, something that would anchor her when everything else was spinning out of her control. Her breathing turned ragged, uneven, each inhale catching like she had to fight for it. The sound was close to a sob, though not quite, as if she still could not give him that final piece of her.
But her pride was already in pieces, scattered beyond recognition, and what came next felt like the last thing she had left to give.
"Draco…"
The word slipped out small and unsteady, barely more than a breath. It was not loud. It was not a scream. It was not the dramatic, desperate cry that belonged to storybook declarations. It was quiet in a way that hurt more, stripped down until nothing remained but truth. And somehow, that made it heavier than any shout could have been.
For a long moment, he did nothing.
He did not speak. He did not move. He did not even seem to breathe.
He simply stood there, watching her with an expression that gave nothing away, his entire body held taut as if every muscle was locked in place. It felt like he was committing her to memory exactly as she was—wrecked and undone, stripped of every weapon she had tried to use against him, her resistance scattered on the ground between them.
She had fought him. She had pushed him away. She had played at being untouchable, at being immune to the pull between them. She had acted like she could walk away from this, from him, without feeling a thing.
And yet here she was, broken at his feet, whispering his name like it was both prayer and curse, like it was the only thing she had left, like it was the one truth she could no longer deny.
He crouched beside her slowly, deliberately, the movement unhurried, like a predator lowering itself before striking. His presence filled the space around her until there was nothing else, until the air itself seemed to bend beneath the weight of him. It pressed against her chest, made her pulse race, made her limbs tremble, made her feel like she was slipping deeper into something she would never crawl her way out of.
His fingers brushed her jaw first, the barest ghost of contact before they slid under her chin. The touch was firm enough to leave no question about who was in control, tilting her face upward until her gaze met his. She could not look anywhere else. She could not pretend he was not there. She could not escape the way his eyes held her, dark and unyielding, full of a hunger that had already claimed her whether she wanted to admit it or not.
"What is it, angel?" His voice was quiet, but it reached her like a touch, curling around her spine, settling low in her belly. The question carried amusement, the satisfaction of a man who already knew the answer, the unshakable confidence of someone who had her exactly where he wanted her. "Did you not get to come on my fingers?"
The crude words should have angered her. Instead, they sent a shiver through her, sharp and involuntary, as if her body had betrayed her again. The way he said them made her stomach twist and her thighs ache, made her feel small in the most dangerous way. It was not just a taunt. It was a reminder, a lesson, proof that she had no control here.
"Please… please continue." The plea left her lips without a second thought. It came raw and unguarded, without care for what it meant or how much power it gave him. The part of her that still clung to pride should have been horrified, but the rest of her was too far gone to care.
Draco's expression shifted just slightly, enough for her to see the flicker of satisfaction before he masked it again. He lowered himself to the floor beside her, unhurried, taking up space like he owned every inch of it. His fingers began to wander over her skin in idle patterns, slow and unhurried, making her wait, drawing out the ache until it became unbearable.
"I asked you something." His tone softened, almost gentle, but the softness was a trap. She knew that tone. She knew it meant he was still in control, that he was still holding her pleasure between his hands and had no intention of giving it to her until she gave him the words he wanted.
Her chest rose and fell too fast. Her thoughts fought themselves, tangled between what she wanted in this moment and the rules she had built her life on. The battle was exhausting, tearing at her from the inside out.
"This is…" She swallowed, her voice catching, her throat suddenly dry. The words came out as little more than a whisper. "This is not how it is supposed to be."
He tilted his head, his gaze never leaving hers. For a moment, he said nothing, and the silence between them felt heavy enough to crush her. When he did speak, his voice was measured, the question free of mockery or cruelty.
"How is it supposed to go, then?"
Something about the way he asked it made her chest tighten. It was not condescending. It was curious. It was heavy with something that might have been vulnerability, or maybe it was something else entirely, something she could not name but could feel in her bones.
She knew the answer, had known it long before she met him, long before he had unraveled her so completely.
"Falling in love…" she said, and the words trembled in her mouth. "It is not supposed to be like this. We are supposed to be…"
She faltered, the thought collapsing before she could finish it. She did not know what she had meant to say. She did not know what she had expected from him, or from herself, or from whatever it was they had become. She only knew that he had ruined her in ways that were both the worst and the best thing that had ever happened to her.
Before she could finish the thought, before her mind could spiral further into all the places she had been trying to avoid, he moved. It was not sudden, not harsh, not the kind of movement that demanded fear. It was slow, deliberate, a careful shift forward until his chest pressed against hers and his arms came around her. The contact closed the space between them entirely, pulling her into the circle of his body and holding her there.
The hold was firm enough to remind her she was not going anywhere, yet there was something in it that felt dangerous and safe at the same time. She told herself she should resist. She should pull back. She should remember every reason this was a mistake, every wound that had not yet healed, every betrayal that still sat raw under her skin. But the part of her that was still shaking, still struggling to breathe evenly, ignored every warning.
His warmth bled into her until it was all she could feel. It sank into her skin, seeped through her ribs, quieted the chaos in her head with a steady, grounding heat. It should not have soothed her, not after everything, not after the way he had broken her apart. Yet it did. It made her body lean, made her shoulders soften, made her pulse slow just enough for her to rest against him.
And then, without meaning to, she let the words slip.
"You broke my heart," she whispered. The sound was thick, heavy with something unspoken, something brittle and on the verge of snapping. "I did lo—"
The rest caught in her throat, cutting her off as if her own body refused to let her finish. Her eyes went wide, horror and realization rushing in together until they filled every part of her. She felt it crash through her like a wave breaking against stone, sharp and cold, leaving her exposed.
His arms tightened. His lips brushed the crown of her head, a fleeting, unhurried touch, his breath steady and warm as it ghosted through her hair.
"I love you," he said, and there was no hesitation, no weight in the words as though they were difficult to speak. They came out easy, almost careless, as if the truth had never been in question, as if it had always been waiting there between them, patient and certain.
Her body went still. Her pulse roared in her ears. The ground under her might as well have shifted because it felt like the world had tilted without warning.
"You know that, don't you?" His fingers moved to the nape of her neck, the touch slow and steady, meant to keep her from slipping away.
"I know I broke your heart." The words carried less certainty, softening as though he had allowed himself to peel away some of the armor. The honesty in them settled heavy between them, not as an apology but as an admission he had been holding for too long. "I never meant to do that."
There was nothing practiced in his tone. No polish. No calculated charm. Just truth. It pressed against her chest until it ached, until she wondered if she could stand to hear it again.
Because what if he meant every word?
What if she had spent all this time pushing away something that was always hers?
And worse still—
What if she had already crossed the point where loving him back could be undone?
The moment he lifted her into his arms, she did not resist. There was no flinch, no attempt to twist away, no false pretense that she did not belong there. Her body folded into him with a quiet inevitability, curling against him as though she had always been meant to fit this way, as though none of their battles had ever happened, as though the war between them had been nothing more than a shadow that could never survive this closeness.
He held her tightly, his grip firm and unyielding, not out of fear that she would run but because the thought of letting her go was unthinkable. It was not a restraint. It was a claim. It was the quiet, unspoken truth that now she was here again, now she was in his arms, there was no version of the world where he would willingly release her.
Her warmth seeped through his clothes and into his skin. She was a contradiction pressed into his chest, soft yet steady, fragile yet impossibly strong, trembling with exhaustion yet still finding the will to cling to him. Her fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt, the pressure of her grip insistent and grounding, as though she needed to reassure herself that he was real. That he would not vanish this time. That she could keep him here if she only held tight enough. The sensation pulled something sharp and aching to the surface inside him, a need that was both desperate and tender, the kind that clawed at his chest until he felt as though he might break.
She was here. Finally here. And for the first time in months, since the moment she had walked away, he could breathe without the weight of absence crushing his lungs.
He did not waste time wondering if this was right. He did not ask himself if he had the right to hold her, to bring her with him, to make choices she might question in the morning. None of it mattered. All that mattered was getting her somewhere she could be warm, somewhere she could rest, somewhere he could be certain she would not slip from his reach again.
The magic came easily. He twisted it into being with a sharp thought, pulling the world tight until it folded in on itself, until the universe bent enough to deliver her to the only place that felt inevitable.
When they landed, the sound was barely more than a quiet pop. The air shifted. The scent of his space wrapped around them, mingled with the faintest trace of her hair still lingering near his cheek. The firelight from the hearth painted the walls in gold and shadow, flickering over deep green and silver, glinting against familiar shapes and edges. This room had never truly felt like home until now, until she was standing in it, until her weight was settled against him as though it belonged there.
It was here he had counted sleepless hours. Here he had walked the floor until his patience splintered. Here he had stared at the ceiling, whispered her name into the quiet of his sheets, felt the sharp ache of her absence like an open wound that refused to close. And now she was in the center of it all, breathing, warm, solid in his arms.
He lowered her to the bed with care, slow enough to make it feel deliberate. The pillows gave easily under her, the duvet drawn over her until she was cocooned in softness and heat. His hands worked with a gentleness that almost startled him, the touch foreign on fingers far more accustomed to gripping and holding than to tucking and smoothing.
She did not stop him. She did not shrink away or try to reclaim her space. She only watched him with heavy-lidded eyes, her gaze clouded with exhaustion, her body loose in a way that told him she no longer had the energy to fight.
"Sleep, darling one," he said, his voice low and softened to something she had never heard from him before. "Let us go to bed, all right?"
For a long moment she was silent, her lips parting but no words coming. Her breathing was uneven but calm, her lashes lowered just enough that he could still see the sharp glint of her gaze beneath them. It pierced him in a way that felt like being undone, as if she could see past the surface and into the raw center he kept from everyone else.
At last she gave a small nod. Her voice was quiet, faint enough that it might have been lost in the crackle of the fire.
"All right."
It was enough.
He released a slow breath, felt something inside his chest loosen, felt a tension he had been holding for months finally slip. It was not relief in the way he had imagined it, not triumph, but a breaking open he could not quite name, a softening he could not stop.
He moved with purpose, every action measured, pulling off his shirt and letting it fall to the floor, pushing away his shoes with a casual sweep of his foot before crossing to the bed. Climbing in beside her felt instinctive, almost inevitable, as if they had done this countless times before. It did not feel like something fragile, even though it was. It did not feel like something rare, even though it was precious. It felt like a moment he had imagined in so many restless nights, one he had never dared to believe would actually happen.
Without hesitation, without the smallest flicker of doubt, he drew her into his arms. She settled perfectly, her back molding to the curve of his chest, her warmth seeping into him until he wondered how he had ever gone without it. His hold was steady, protective, the kind of embrace that promised she would not slip away again. It was as if she had always been meant to rest here, as if this was where she had belonged all along, and he had only now learned the truth of it.
His fingertips drifted in slow, idle circles over her hip, each movement a quiet reassurance. He leaned in, his lips brushing the curve of her shoulder in the faintest ghost of a kiss, his breath warm against her hair. He drew her closer still, tightening his arms as though he could keep her anchored with touch alone.
She made no move to resist him. She did not stiffen or retreat into herself. Instead, she shifted almost imperceptibly, a small lean that brought her even nearer. It was a subtle thing, barely there, yet it felt like everything.
That was the moment his chest loosened for the first time in months. The quiet that filled him was not the hollow quiet of solitude but something deep and whole, something he had not felt in longer than he could remember. He was not alone anymore. And in that quiet, in that impossible stillness, he understood the cost of what he held.
He was holding something he could never allow himself to lose.