𝕷𝖚𝖉𝖔𝖘 ✷ 𝑨𝒂𝒓𝒐𝒏 𝑾𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒓

𝟐𝟒.- 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐬

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

"There's a million reasons why I should give you up, but the heart wants what it wants."

𝑾𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒓

"Arabella," I whisper.

I sense her before I see her.

"You found me," I hear her say.

"Of course I did," I say, though my voice comes out as confused as I feel. "I always do."

I'm standing in my room. It's bathed in muted shadows, the walls faintly illuminated by a single, flickering light in the corner. The air feels dense, alive, and for a moment, I wonder if I've stepped into some forgotten corner of my mind.

I'm half-dressed, getting ready for my day, and it's too early for visitors. These hours just before the sun rises are my only moments of peace, and no one should be in here. It seems impossible she gained access to my private quarters.

Someone should've stopped her.

And I'm so glad no one did.

Instead, she's standing in my doorway, staring at me, and I can hardly breathe. The sight of her steals the breath from my lungs, and I can't do anything but stare. She's unreal. She's always been unreal. I've seen her so many times, but this is different—it's causing me physical pain to look at her. But somehow I still find myself drawn to her, wanting to be near her. It physically hurts to look at her. Yet, I can't seem to stop. It's like gravity itself has shifted, pulling me closer, demanding I give in.

"I'm so sorry," she says, and she's wringing her hands, looking away from me. "I'm so, so sorry."

I want to ask her why. I want to tell her that she shouldn't be sorry for anything. I should say anything.

But I'm too mesmerized by the sight of her.

It takes me a second to realize I'm staring. Staring at her. At the dress she's wearing.

It's a dark-green dress with fitted sleeves; a simple cut made of stretch cotton that clings to the soft curves of her figure. It complements the flecks of green in her eyes in a way I couldn't have anticipated, the kind of beauty that takes its time to devastate you. It's one of the many dresses I chose for her. I thought she might enjoy having something nice instead of that old-fashioned uniform she was given to wear. And I can't quite explain it, but it gives me a strange sense of pride to see her wearing something I picked out myself.

"I'm sorry," she says for the third time.

"Don't be sorry, love."

I'm again struck by how impossible it is that she's here. In my bedroom. Staring at me without my shirt on. Her hair falls like it's begging for my hands to tangle in it; I have to clench my fists against this unbidden need to run my hands through it.