Page 214 of Ruin Me Gently

I should. But I didn’t. Because I wanted to keep her safe. So damn protected from everything that had been my fault.

It didn’t matter how many times Finn told me it wasn’t my fault. It didn’t matter how many times he said I couldn’t have predicted it, that I wasn’t the one who hurt her.

It didn’t matter how many times I told myself the same things.

Itwasmy fault.

And until I fixed the loose end that was out there in the form of a sociopathic, bleach-blond asshole. I couldn’t afford to give her full transparency.

I knew she hated it. Hated that I kept things from her. Hated that she felt like a spectator in her own life, watching from the outside while I’d made decisions she had no say in.

But I’d wanted to do this on my own. I didn’t want her any more stressed than she was. I didn’t want her losing more sleep, spiralling deeper into fear, carrying even more weight than she already did.

“I just wanted to do something nice for you,” I said instead, my voice soft.

She just sat there, watching me, her fingers curled around the stem of the wine glass, the soft, flickering glow of the lanterns against her skin.

I didn’t know what she was thinking.

But I knew how beautiful she looked.

Black hair spilling over her shoulders, loose waves catching in the wind, strands tangling at her collarbones, shifting with every slow breath she took.

Pretty pink lips, parted just slightly, like she had something to say but hadn’t quite figured out how to say it.

That straight, elegant nose she always scrunched when she was annoyed, the same one I’d memorised, the same one I wanted to run my thumb over just to feel it.

And those silver eyes, pulling me in like the goddamn tide.

I adored her. Not in a soft, delicate way—but in the way a wildfire adores oxygen. In the way the ocean adores the moon, tugged forward by something unseen, something inevitable.

And she didn’t even realise it.

Or did she?

She just sat there, lashes fluttering as she looked at me like I was something more than I was.

The same pull. The same need. The same look she gave me every single time I walked into the room.

And I felt it down to my bones.

I reached out, fingers brushing over her wrist. “You do that a lot, you know.”

Her brows furrowed slightly. “Do what?”

“You look at me like I hung the damn moon or something.”

Her breath hitched. Just slightly. But then she shook her head, like she was physically trying to force the moment away.

Why did she always do that?

“Fucking hell,” she muttered. “Should I start reciting Sonnet Eighteen just to make sure your ego reaches its full potential?”

I huffed out a laugh, swirling the wine in my glass. “Go ahead. I’d love to hear how I’m more lovely and more temperate.”

She snorted, taking a sip of her own. “More insufferable, maybe.”

I let that slide, stretching my legs out, eyes flicking toward the skyline. The city buzzed beneath us, bright and relentless, but up here, it was quiet.

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