Page 42 of Veil of Dust

He’s still watching. That doesn’t surprise me.

What does is the touch.

His hand brushes mine.

Not by accident.

He places his fingers there on purpose, just enough contact to make it clear.

Warm. Solid.

Not demanding.

Intentional.

I don’t move away. Neither does he.

His hand is rough. Callused. It lingers a second—no pressure, no rush.

Just a connection. Simple. Real.

“You’re not alone in this,” he says, quieter now. Not unsure. Just stripped of everything but the point.

I look at him.

His eyes are steady and focused, with no questions in them—only truth.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t smile. He just looks at me like the words already belong to me.

I don’t respond with anything big. Just a nod.

But it’s more than I gave him yesterday.

He notices. His expression shifts slightly, and something eases in his face.

The room feels different for a second.

Not softer.

Just still.

Held.

I finish securing the knife under the back of my waistband. The steel rests cold against my skin. His hand’s not there anymore, but I still feel the warmth from where he touched me.

He watches the motion. Doesn’t move again. Doesn’t need to.

He’s not pressing. He’s not crowding.

He’s anchoring.

Help’s showing up, I think. Some of it I asked for. Some of it just arrived.

I take a step toward the door and push it open. The hinges creak lowly.

The sound cuts through the quiet.

Outside, the bar breathes again, life pouring in like it never left.

---