𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐄

𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐘 𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓

FRAGMENTS

The room was quiet except for the faint ticking of the clock, and the subtle rasp of Roux’s breathing.

Roux’s still unconscious, stretched across the bed, one arm draped over his abdomen, and the other hanging off by his side. I stood near the dresser, a bowl of warm water in my hands. I had gathered a clean cloth, gauze, ointment, and a bottle of antiseptic — anything I could find that might help.

Everything felt too quiet, too slow.

I reached for the towel, dipped it into the water, and wrung it out with steady hands, though my focus kept drifting.

My eyes flicked back to the bed.

Roux was still unconscious, his breathing shallow. The bruises on his face had darkened, his lip was split, and there were dried blood along the edge of his jaw. He looked as though he’d been thrown into something and never had the chance to fight back.

“I hope these bruises weren’t from Dacre. You seem like a good man, Roux.”

Something about the way his face looked in the low light — the curve of his cheekbone, the small scar near his brow pulled at me. My gaze lingered too long. I wasn’t sure if it was curiosity, pity, or something older.

It hit me.

A sharp, sudden throb at the center of my forehead. I winced, my hand flying up instinctively to press against my temple. The ache lasted only a few seconds, but in that brief flash, my mind blurred.

I saw myself.

An office — bright, clean, with light pouring through tall windows. A desk in front of me. Papers scattered. I was standing, laughing. Someone else was there. A man. His face was indistinct, shifting in my memory like smoke. He leaned toward me, saying something that made me smile.

I blinked. It was gone.

I exhaled slowly, and opened my eyes again, grounding myself in the quiet of the guest room. My hand dropped from my temple. Roux was still there. Still unconscious.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that the man in that memory — the blurred one who had made me laugh wasn’t a stranger. Somewhere, deep inside, my body had recognized him.

“Roux...”

—

Pain pulled me back into my body before I was fully conscious. It was sharp — a searing burn across my ribs, the throb of my jaw, and the dull ache radiating from my eyes, but it faded just enough to let clarity take its place.

I opened my eyes slowly.

The ceiling above me was unfamiliar. A soft yellow glow from a nearby lamp washed the room in warmth. For a second, I just laid there, letting the silence wrap around me, trying to piece together how I got here.

I turned my head, even though it was painful. There she was.

Teagan.

She was asleep in a chair pulled close to the side of the bed, her head resting on her folded arm, the edge of the mattress barely supporting her wrist. Her breathing was slow and steady, and a blanket had slipped from her shoulder. Loose strands of hair framed her beautiful face.

In that moment, I forgot how to breathe.

My heart stuttered beneath the bruises. My throat tightened, my hand twitched on the sheets, but I didn’t dare move. I just stared, scared that if I blink, she’d vanish again.

I hadn’t seen her this close in five years.

Five years of noise, chasing silence, and standing in crowds while feeling alone. Five years of trying to forget the shape of her lips, the way her voice softened when she spoke to me, the way she laughed when she thought nobody was listening.

Five years of forcing myself not to look at old photos, of not checking if she had returned. Now, here she is.

Sleeping next to me. Not a dream. Not a memory. Not a ghost.

Real.

Close enough to touch.

The knot in my chest ached worse than the bruises. I swallowed hard, tasting blood. My fingers itched to reach for her hand, just to feel her skin against mine. Just to know this wasn’t something my mind had conjured up to survive one more day without her.

My beautiful Teagan.

She looked peaceful, exhausted, and still so heartbreakingly beautiful.

I closed my eyes for a moment. Looking at her was too much. It wasn’t fair how she could still unravel me without even waking.

There were so many things I wanted to say. I wanted to tell her how I’d searched for her in everyone. How I never stopped hoping that somehow, somewhere, she would come back.

I would’ve burned down every piece of my life, if it meant bringing her home.

She doesn’t remember me, and that’s the cruelest part. I opened my eyes again. She hadn’t moved. Her hand was still near mine. Inches away.

I didn’t reach for it. I couldn’t. I’ve waited this long, but what was one more night of wanting her in silence?

—

I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Even with the ache on my side, the pull of dried blood across my skin, and the exhaustion digging deep into my bones, all I could do was stare.

There were lines in her face — not harsh ones, but changes. A faint crease near her lips. A few quietness in her eyes. She was older, sure, but so was I. Yet, in all the ways that mattered, she was still her.

Still the woman who used to smile at me like I was the only man in the world.

My chest ached, but this time, not from injury. The memory of the night we’ve shared came without warning.

She was on top of me, her lips already pressed against mine, both of us breathless with laughter that had nowhere else to go. It had started with a kiss — fast, clumsy, hungry, but it didn’t stay that way.

She pulled my shirt off like she’d done it a hundred times before.

“You’re so sexy, Roux.”

My hands moved beneath the hem of hers, fingers trembling with need. We hadn’t even made it to the bedroom.

The couch had been enough. The low hum of the television in the background, forgotten. Her skin was warm under my palms, her lips trailing down my neck as I whispered her name like a prayer between every kiss.

“Teagan, please...”

“Please what? Use your words.”

“I need you.”

When it finally happened, when she sank into me, we moved together like we were made for it. I remembered the way she looked at me.

The memory faded as gently as it came, leaving me cold and hollow in its absence.

Now, she sat inches away, unaware of the versiom of us that once existed, of what we had shared, and of how I once held her like the world might end if I let go.

I didn’t know which part hurt worse — the bruises on my skin, or the ones she’d left behind without even knowing it.

Still, I loved her.

God, I still love her.

TO BE CONTINUED.