' ' Perfect Enough To Break ' '

Falling For You

Sova

I watched his expressions shift — restrained, unreadable, and yet somehow raw enough that I could almost hear the things he wasn't saying. My teeth dug into my lip until I tasted iron.

Back when I couldn't trust anyone, I believed him. That thought alone nearly undid me.

I forced myself to look up, blinking fast so no tears escaped. He didn't get to see me cry. Not now. I smoothed the ache out of my voice and lifted my chin — controlled, practiced, perfect. When I looked down again, I forced a small, polite smile. Something distant. Something that didn't give away how much of me still fractured at the sight of him bleeding because of me.

Then I stepped closer. The air between us felt taut, fragile, charged with something neither of us wanted to name. I leaned down, my fingers finding his chin. His skin was warm under my touch — too human for someone who'd done the inhuman. I tilted his head up, forcing his eyes to meet mine.

Surprisingly, he didn't fight it. Didn't pull back. Didn't sneer. He just... looked at me.

I could see the war behind his eyes — the hesitation, the pride, the guilt. He looked like he was searching for which truth would hurt less to say.

His tongue darted out, wetting his lips before the words finally fell.
"I should've come back for you," he said, voice low and hoarse, "but I never stopped looking for you. You have to believe me."

It sounded almost like a plea.
Almost.

I studied his face for any flicker of deception. The wound along his ribs still bled steadily, dark and merciless. Not healed. Not yet. The sword knew when a truth was only half-told.

Then, as if the silence itself reminded him, he spoke again.
"My greatest regret is the freedom I found without you."

My breath caught — and then his gaze lifted to mine. Even kneeling, even bruised, even bloodied and broken, he looked at me like I was something he'd never stopped worshipping.
"But you'll always be a risk I'm willing to take."

The words hit like a pulse of heat through the air. The wound began to glow faintly, gold bleeding into red, then closing on itself as though his confession soothed it.

I inhaled carefully — as if one wrong breath might give me away. Might make me crumble. It was ironic, really. He was the one bleeding, the one confessing, yet somehow I felt stripped bare.

My eyes, traitorous things, flicked to his lips.
And when I realized what I was doing, I forced myself to meet his gaze again.
That was a mistake.

His mouth curved into a grin — slow, deliberate, mocking and tender all at once.

"And your second truth?" I said, nudging his chin upward just slightly, forcing the amusement back out of him.

I saw it then — how he almost scoffed, how the corners of his mouth twitched. A defense mechanism. His default armor. But instead of lashing out, he looked away, quiet. The sharpness in him dulled into something else — something softer, something that looked too much like surrender.

When he finally spoke, his voice wasn't the soldier's. It wasn't the assassin's. It was just... his.
"My own death in one of these missions scares me," he said. His eyes lifted, finding mine, pinning me there. "But yours is my greatest fear."

The words hit harder than any blade could.

For a moment, I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. The truth of it rang in the air, quiet but relentless — the kind of truth that didn't need magic to hurt.

I stayed there, his blood still warm on my gloves, the world unnervingly still.
And for the first time in a long time, I became painfully aware that the risks I took — the walls I built — had consequences beyond me.

He feared losing me.
And I didn't know how to live with that.

I straighten, forcing my breathing to even out, pulling my hand from his chin like it burns. His wounds are already closing, faint light fading into pale, unbroken skin. The air feels heavier now — like the silence between us has mass.

"You're not going to talk to me?" he mutters, voice hoarse, almost breaking. The words pull at something in me I don't want to name.

He's still kneeling, chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths. The effort to stay composed is visible in every line of him — the way his jaw clenches, the way the metal fingers of his left hand twitch slightly against the ground. He's holding himself together by threads, and I hate that I notice.

I turn, forcing myself to move before I start feeling anything else. But before I take a full step, his hand snaps forward — metal and unyielding — wrapping around the back of my neck and dragging me down toward him.

The sound that leaves me is small, startled. My hands shoot forward on instinct, bracing on either side of his head as my knees hit the ground beside his hips. The air between us thins to nothing.

He looks up at me from where he's half-kneeling, half-sitting, eyes dark, unreadable — but not cold. There's too much heat in them for that. A small smirk curves at the corner of his lips, soft, dangerous.

"Careful," he says quietly, voice low enough that it vibrates in my chest. "You'll make me think you still care."

I should move. I should shove him off, say something sharp and distant — but I don't. I freeze, caught between instinct and confusion. My palms are still pressed against the cold floor on either side of his face, close enough that I can see the uneven rise of his chest, the faint hitch in his breath when I shift.

He looks different this close. Human. Bruised and worn and still so infuriatingly alive.

His eyes flick down, just for a heartbeat — from my eyes to my mouth — and that's when I realize how close we really are. My breath catches.

"Let go," I manage, though my voice comes out quieter than I meant it to.

His grip doesn't tighten, but it doesn't loosen either. Just lingers there — his thumb brushing lightly against the side of my neck, not rough, not tender, just there.

"I could," he says, tone softer now, almost thoughtful. "But I don't think you want me to."

Something inside me stutters. My pulse kicks against my ribs, and for a moment I can't tell if it's from anger or something much, much worse.

I scoff, forcing a breath out, trying to reclaim the control slipping through my fingers. "You think too highly of yourself, Barnes."

He smiles then — not the smirk, not the shielded grin — something smaller. Sadder. "Maybe," he murmurs. "But not of you."

It's ridiculous how that single line lodges itself in my throat, how close it feels to a confession I don't want to hear.

The silence stretches, thick and unsteady. Neither of us moves. My heartbeat is too loud. His eyes don't leave mine.

Then, finally — too abruptly — I pull back. My hands push off the floor, and I break the contact, stepping away before I can make the mistake of staying.

"You don't get to pull that bullshit on me anymore," I say, steady enough to sound convincing.