Page 31 of Twisted Violet
Traitor.
Her breath is warm against my chest. The weight of her against me shouldn’t feel good, but it does. And that’s a problem, because I’ve been here before.
Not this exact couch, not on this exact night, but this feeling? It’s familiar. And the last time I let myself lose control around her, she pretended like it never happened.
I told myself it didn’t matter,but it did,it still does.
I look down at her again and let my eyes trace the curve of her lashes, the softness of her mouth, and the way she relaxes into me like I’m safe, like I matter.
It’s a lie. Not from her; she’s not even awake, but my mind’s already making up stories for itself.
I shift just enough to test her weight. She doesn't stir.
Good.
Slowly, I roll her back over as I reach for the blanket again and tug it up over her shoulders. Her brow twitches like she’s about to wake.
I freeze and wait.
Nothing.
Then I slide my arm out from beneath her, moving inch by inch like I’m disarming a bomb.
The second I’m free, I stand up and back away.
She curls into the spot I left behind and tucks her hands beneath her cheek like nothing happened, like she didn’t just undo me in thirty seconds flat without even opening her eyes.
I glance down at her one last time and take in the faint crease between her brows and the whisper of a frown that never fully leaves.
Then I turn and walk away.
Because if I stay, I’ll start to believe this means something.
And I’ve already made that mistake before.
ELEVEN
VIOLET
The scallionshiss as they hit the pan and the scent ofgarlic permeates through the air.
I toss the noodles again and am just about to reach for the sesame oil when my phone buzzes on the counter beside me.
It’s a video call from Stevie.
She’s been doing that a lot lately, now that she has her voice back. I guess the weeks of forced silence turned her into a yapper.
Killing the burner; I wipe my hands on a towel, prop my phone against the paper towel holder, and answer the call.
Stevie’s face fills my screen, glowing with that soft, hospital-grade lighting.
“Hey,” I say, smiling into the camera. “You look better.”
“I look like a stitched-up scarecrow,” she says dryly.
“Yeah. But like, a hot one.”
Her lips twitch, and she leans back against her pillows with a sigh. Her throat bandages are freshly changed; I can see them peeking out beneath the edge of her sweatshirt collar.
