A Broken Inheritance

Chapter 59: Dripping Half-Promises

He couldn't stop thinking about her face. She hadn't said anything cruel. Not really. That would've been easier, in a way. If she'd sneered or laughed or told him to get over himself. If she'd confirmed what he already knew: that she would never look at him the way he looked at her.

But she hadn't done that.

She'd looked at him like he was tragic.

Like he was some bleeding dog lying on the side of the road. Like his ribcage was cracked open and she could see the pathetic little flutter of hope inside, and all it made her feel was sorry for him.

He winced.

He could stomach a lot. He really could. But pity? From her?

That was the worst of it.

It wasn't disdain.

It wasn't anger.

It was guilt.

He'd seen it all over her face—the panicked set of her mouth, the way her hand had reached for him before she thought better of it. Like he was about to vanish. Like he might just turn and never look back. Like she'd finally pushed him past the point of return.

And yeah, for a moment, he had considered it.

Not leaving, not really. But just... folding inward. Saying less. Feeling less. Turning the whole thing down a few notches so he didn't end up standing shirtless and bleeding in front of her again, begging her not to look at him like that.

Not when he'd spent so long pretending this didn't matter. Pretending he was fine just being nearby. Being useful. Being safe.

And the worst part? He'd go back. Of course he would. Because the thought of her pacing in her room, still shaken from earlier, waiting for him to come back... and him not showing?

That was worse than pity.

That was cruel.

So no. He wasn't going to stay up here like a sad little martyr. He was going to shove all this shit back into the box where it belonged, throw on the Invisibility Cloak, and march right back into her room like the world's most emotionally stable houseguest.

He gave the sky one last look, the stars too bright and uncaring, then stood.

"Alright, alright," he muttered under his breath, pulling the cloak back over his head. "That's enough self-loathing for one evening."

His voice echoed slightly in the cold, thin air.

He gave a little shake of his shoulders, like maybe he could physically shrug off the weight of everything he'd just said. Everything she'd heard. He could do this. He'd crack a joke. Something stupid. Tell her she missed out on the world's most dramatic monologue by not running after him. Pretend like none of it mattered. Like the red in his ears was from the cold and not humiliation.

She'd probably see through it. She always did. But he'd smile anyway. Because if she looked at him like that again, like he was a walking tragedy, something to be fixed, he didn't know if he could take it.

He'd rather she hate him.

At least that would be honest.

At least it wouldn't feel so much like drowning.

He paused halfway down the staircase, one hand on the stone wall, breath misting in front of him.

Then he sighed and muttered, "Yeah, great job, mate. Confess all your feelings to the girl who's actively coming apart at the seams. Real smooth."