Sins of Aiden

24

CHAPTER 24

I saw him once like that.

The gentle version of himself that scarcely surpasses the exterior of his roughness—so fleeting I almost persuaded myself it wasn't real. Like it had slipped through a crack in him he didn't even know existed, and didn't realize it lingered just long enough for me to notice, and then vanished before I could reach for it.

And that version of him wasn't vociferous. It wasn't a dramatic shift even.

The interpretation was quiet.

He was standing there, in front of me, shoulders tense like always, jaw locked like he was holding something back, rugged around the edges and entirely on alert mode—but it was his eyes that betrayed him.

What lay beyond them.

Because Aiden's eyes are usually dark. Not only in hue, but in the weight of them. There's a pitch-black kind of turmoil that sits heavy behind them, coiled and restless, like it's always one wrong breath away from breaking loose. It's the kind of darkness that doesn't blink first—it's the kind that warns before it destroys.

But that day, on that particular normal, day, when he looked at me—they were different.

It was a distinct change that momentarily made me think that the world had stopped spinning.

The ebony in his eyes wasn't gone, not entirely—it never is, but it had softened around the sharp edges, like ink diluted in water. And beneath it all, that hard shell, there was a warmth I hadn't known to look for before—a chestnut tint catching the light, tranquil and honest, like it had been there all along, waiting for permission to exist.

Something in them eased—softened when they found me. Not in the way people would look when they want something. Not even with hunger or expectation or cruelty hiding underneath.

There was no fury in that look. No underlying violence ready to wack forward. It was just him—Aiden with a careful kind of stillness that he rarely possess, like he was holding something delicate in his hands and didn't trust himself not to break it.

Me.

His gaze didn't strip me down or size me up. It didn't investigate for flaws or weaknesses, nor did it look past me, or through me, or over me.

It stopped.

And stayed holding my gaze.

For the first time, I didn't feel like I had to shrink under his attention. I didn't feel small or fragile or like something that required to be handled gently because it might shatter.

I felt seen.

Not as the girl whom people worry about or the girl who needs protecting or something soft in a hard world.

He was just looking at me.

He saw me.

There was something promising in his eyes then. Something almost hopeful, like a question he was afraid to ask. Like if he stayed there too long holding my gaze—if he let that softness emerge any more than it already had—it would cost him something he wasn't ready to lose.

So he pulled it back.

He always does.

The darkness crept in again, slow and practiced, locking the fervor away like it had never existed at all. But I saw it before he could.

And now—after everything that has happened—that memory is all I have left of the version of him that never hurt me. Because at that moment, when he looked at me—that careful, vulnerable part of him that's not occupied with the constant need to protect and guard himself—that's the moment that I'm clinging to.