Capture

Scar Tissue

I hear his footsteps before I see him—calm, steady. Steady Harry. My heart clenches. I don't turn to face him. I can't. Not right now. Not with my pride barely hanging on. "Emma," he says gently, already close enough to touch. "What happened?"

His hands settle on my shoulders, they are warm grounding me to the world. Then he turns me around, his eyes scanning my face. I don't want to see his expression, but it's there, etched in every line: worry, confusion, anger... disappointment. "Did he hurt you?" His voice is tight now, coiled with restrained fury.

I lift a hand to my cheek, confused at first by the wetness—until I see the blood. A dark smear across my fingertips. Great. Harry's hand rises instinctively, then stills, hovering just inches from my skin. Waiting, like always. He never crosses a boundary I don't let him cross. "No," I say quickly. "It was an accident. A bottle broke."

It sounds stupid as soon as it leaves my mouth. Harry doesn't say anything, but his eyes don't move. They stay locked on mine, searching for the truth I'm not giving him. "I swear, Harry. He didn't hurt me." I said more firmly but I'm not really speaking to Harry, I'm telling Liam, through his door. You didn't hurt me. I don't want to give him the satisfaction of breaking me.

He leans in slightly, inspecting the cut like he wants to argue, but he doesn't. "Emma, that looks deep. Come inside. I'll clean it for you—"

"I'm fine," I cut in. Too harsh. Too fast. "I can take care of it." There's a flicker of something in his face—hurt, maybe—but he doesn't show it for long. He steps back slowly giving me space because that's what Harry does. He understands. He makes space. He's the kind of man who sees blood on your face and wants to clean it, not pretend it's not there. The kind of man who stays, even when you're pushing him away.

And that's the problem, isn't it? I'm standing on the outside of Liam's door begging him to open it and let me in, but he won't, and at the same time the kind decent man I've started to have feelings for is there to pick up my pieces. Suddenly I feel guilty. Both of them pull me towards them in ways that I want, that I desperately need, and yet I don't know which one I want to run towards.

"What were you even doing in Liam's flat?" he asks, quieter now.

I hesitate. I don't owe him an answer, but I give one anyway.

"I went to see his fight tonight, with friends." I explained. "He was out of it after the match, shaky. I was just making sure he got home."

Harry's expression tightens.

I sigh. "I couldn't let him hobble home alone. I was being neighborly." I don't know why it comes out so defensive, maybe because it's not the whole story, and I hate lying to someone who's only ever tried to help. Harry doesn't say anything more, just watches me with a look of understanding, I can't quite make out what he's thinking behind those light green-blue eyes but I suddenly feel very exposed under them. 

"I'm tired, Harry. Good night." I whisper as I move toward my door, fumbling with the keys. My hands are shaking. He starts to step forward, but I'm already half-opening the door.

"Good night, Emma." I nod and shut the door between us.

The bathroom mirror doesn't do me any favors. The cut on my cheek is angrier than I thought—red, swollen, maybe an inch long. Thankfully, it doesn't look like it needs stitches, but it's definitely going to scar. A bright reminder of everything I can't explain. I press a hot washcloth to it and hiss as pain burns through my skin.

I clean the wound with trembling hands, then drag myself to bed like my bones are made of lead. I don't even bother undressing.

Sleep comes fast, but it doesn't stay. My mind won't let me rest. It keeps pulling me back to half-finished conversations, to the raw look in Liam's eyes, to the way his hair felt beneath my fingers as I smoothed it back with more care than I should have allowed myself to feel. It replays everything on a loop, too loud to ignore, too tangled to unravel.