I need your hand but I don't want to burn it
The changes moving through Colt reach him in colours too dense to separate, bruised violet folding over the hot copper of embarrassment while regret moves beneath them with the rough drag of iron filings. Every new conclusion catches against another before settling, roughening the inside of his awareness until he can feel how badly she wants stillness and how impossible her mind finds the request. There’s relief in it too, thin and pale as worn silk, but whenever she reaches for it, grief knots through the fabric and pulls it tight enough to tear.
Her certainty that hatred had never been possible draws a breath of laughter from him. Vesper glances toward her with something faintly wry at one corner of his mouth, though the expression carries more surrender than humour. "No," he murmurs in agreement. "Apparently not." He sighs and lets his gaze fall again, watching the grass bend beneath the weight of his hand. "Thought if I went about it the right way, I could make you hate me." He had approached it with all the care of any other difficult job, choosing each word for the wound it would leave and arranging his indifference so perfectly that even he had almost believed in it. He’d known what she feared finding in him and had simply stepped into the shape, casual and cruel enough that there would be nothing left for her to chase after.
Then her thoughts curl around all the places he’d remained with her, and Vesper goes still. The likeness of it catches him unprepared. Colt has been no less present in his life than he has in hers, woven through moments that should have belonged to entirely different people and places. Some days she’d been nothing more than a dull pull behind his ribs; others, she’d filled the whole damn room without being anywhere near it. Warmth darkens his cheeks before he can swallow it away. His eyes remain on the blades of grass cutting across the gold of her hair, then lift slowly toward her face. "Me neither." The admission is quiet, but there’s no caution left inside it. He’d failed just as thoroughly to be free of her, and there’s no point pretending otherwise when she can likely see the truth of it in how carefully he looks away.
When her decision settles around his secret, something in his chest loosens despite knowing he has no right to expect the mercy. "I appreciate that," he says softly.
Relief doesn’t erase the thought that follows, though, nor the sharp little turn of his attention when he feels the shape of what she believes he took from her. Vesper’s brow rises as he looks back at her. "What choice is that?" There’s no accusation in the question, only tired confusion. From where he’d stood, there had been nothing to offer. He could remain and continue hearing every doubt until they hollowed him out, or he could leave before resentment turned everything good between them rotten. Telling her what he was might have explained the injury, but it wouldn’t have made him capable of holding her fears at some graceful distance, untouched by them simply because they weren’t deliberate.
Her gratitude leaves him with a smile that barely manages to form. It’s small and tired, though genuine, and he nods because he does know. He’s followed the path of her understanding from its first painful turn to this narrow place where at least one old wound finally has the right name, even if naming it can’t heal either of them.
As Colt settles more fully into the grass, Vesper’s gaze follows the moonlight where it shapes her against the deep blues and greens of the meadow. When her hand moves toward his, something bright and painful flares beneath his ribs before he can stop it, hope and longing striking together so quickly that for an instant he forgets how dangerous either one can be. His fingers spread beneath hers, making room without hesitation before he swallows the rest carefully, leaving only the quiet warmth of his hand around hers.
Her certainty that hatred had never been possible draws a breath of laughter from him. Vesper glances toward her with something faintly wry at one corner of his mouth, though the expression carries more surrender than humour. "No," he murmurs in agreement. "Apparently not." He sighs and lets his gaze fall again, watching the grass bend beneath the weight of his hand. "Thought if I went about it the right way, I could make you hate me." He had approached it with all the care of any other difficult job, choosing each word for the wound it would leave and arranging his indifference so perfectly that even he had almost believed in it. He’d known what she feared finding in him and had simply stepped into the shape, casual and cruel enough that there would be nothing left for her to chase after.
Then her thoughts curl around all the places he’d remained with her, and Vesper goes still. The likeness of it catches him unprepared. Colt has been no less present in his life than he has in hers, woven through moments that should have belonged to entirely different people and places. Some days she’d been nothing more than a dull pull behind his ribs; others, she’d filled the whole damn room without being anywhere near it. Warmth darkens his cheeks before he can swallow it away. His eyes remain on the blades of grass cutting across the gold of her hair, then lift slowly toward her face. "Me neither." The admission is quiet, but there’s no caution left inside it. He’d failed just as thoroughly to be free of her, and there’s no point pretending otherwise when she can likely see the truth of it in how carefully he looks away.
When her decision settles around his secret, something in his chest loosens despite knowing he has no right to expect the mercy. "I appreciate that," he says softly.
Relief doesn’t erase the thought that follows, though, nor the sharp little turn of his attention when he feels the shape of what she believes he took from her. Vesper’s brow rises as he looks back at her. "What choice is that?" There’s no accusation in the question, only tired confusion. From where he’d stood, there had been nothing to offer. He could remain and continue hearing every doubt until they hollowed him out, or he could leave before resentment turned everything good between them rotten. Telling her what he was might have explained the injury, but it wouldn’t have made him capable of holding her fears at some graceful distance, untouched by them simply because they weren’t deliberate.
Her gratitude leaves him with a smile that barely manages to form. It’s small and tired, though genuine, and he nods because he does know. He’s followed the path of her understanding from its first painful turn to this narrow place where at least one old wound finally has the right name, even if naming it can’t heal either of them.
As Colt settles more fully into the grass, Vesper’s gaze follows the moonlight where it shapes her against the deep blues and greens of the meadow. When her hand moves toward his, something bright and painful flares beneath his ribs before he can stop it, hope and longing striking together so quickly that for an instant he forgets how dangerous either one can be. His fingers spread beneath hers, making room without hesitation before he swallows the rest carefully, leaving only the quiet warmth of his hand around hers.
No I don't deserve it, I don't deserve it
