The air around Emma felt thick, charged, like atmosphere before a storm. Peter's new presence was a physical force, pressing against her skin, making her pulse leap in a frantic, traitorous rhythm.
She'd felt this pull before—whispers of it, flickers she'd beaten down with logic and shame. But now? Standing here, inches from the face that had haunted her dreams for years, the whispers had become a roaring tide.
It all crashed back. The memory: fourteen years old, Jack Morrison's sneering face, the circle of jeering kids. Stepping forward to protect her, Peter had taken the beating instead—curling into himself on the asphalt, lip split, already swelling.
The image seared into her mind: his blood mixing with rainwater on the dirty ground.
She remembered the coppery tang of blood when his lip split, the way he'd curled inward, taking kicks to the ribs without a sound. Protecting her.
That wasn't just a moment—it was the moment her world tilted.
