Chapter 2 Tender Wounds
I spent the following day carrying him, feeding him, brushing the hair from his eyes.
Pretending I wasn't shattered. Arlo was heavier than I remembered.
Maybe it was the way his body leaned all the way into me, or maybe it was the weight I carried now.
Every breath, every look, every word felt like walking on a cracked floor.
I helped him into the bathroom, careful with the sling and bandages.
He didn't want me to help. But he couldn't do it alone.
"I can handle it," he muttered, cheeks flushed.
"You can't even lift your arm," I said gently. "Let me."
He sighed and looked away. But he let me kneel beside him and help him out of his shirt.
His ribs were wrapped tight, bruises spreading like broken ink across his skin.
I wet a cloth, wiped down his back, careful not to meet his eyes in the mirror.
Later, I tucked him into bed, fed him soup spoon by spoon, cleaned up when he barely finished half.
He was groggy, soft at the edges—high on painkillers that made his pupils slow and his voice warm.
And then, just before sleep pulled him under, he looked at me like I was made of light.
"You're beautiful," he said, voice slow and dreamy. "So beautiful, Berrie."
I froze.
"You're my guardian angel," he went on, eyes half-lidded. "Like... I was drowning and you just... showed up. Soft. Like balm."
My breath hitched.
Balm.
Not wildfire.
Not Lyra.
I swallowed hard, trying to smile, trying to not let the sting show. But it was there. Under my ribs. In the cracks of me.
"Don't go," he murmured suddenly, reaching for my hand with his good one. "Please. Stay. Don't leave."
"Why?" I whispered, barely able to breathe.
I was begging—for what, I didn't even know.
Something more. He blinked slowly. "Because.
.. you're all I have." They were not the words I was waiting for, but I held him, and then I cried silently, pressed to his chest, letting the pain seep out between heartbeats.
The next morning was quiet. Like the apartment knew what had changed.
I still made him breakfast, still helped him sit up, still changed the bandages.
But something in me had shifted. I didn't laugh when he made jokes.
I didn't lean in when he tried to kiss my hand.
I stayed on the other side of the couch.
When he reached out, I gave him a smile but never the whole thing.
By the third day, he noticed.
"Are you okay?" he asked suddenly as I wiped the counter.
I didn't turn around. "I'm fine."
"No, you're not. You're... different."
I shrugged. "I'm just tired."
He watched me for a long time.
"You don't look at me the same," he said quietly.
I turned back to face him. "You're imagining things."
"Am I?" he asked. "Because I feel it, Ber. Like you're here, but not really."
"I'm doing everything I can for you," I said, a little too sharply.
"I didn't ask you to do anything," he said, voice rising. "I asked you to stay." I looked at him then. His eyes were wide. His breathing shaky.
"Are you staying out of pity?"
My chest cracked open.
"No," I said softly. "God, Arlo. No."
He looked down, jaw tight, like he was bracing himself for something. Like he was seconds from telling me I could go if I wanted.
"I'm here because I love you," I yelled, and reached out to touch his hand.
"Me too." He answered.
Of course, he rarely said the words. I didn't care before because I felt them in the way he touched me, in the way he looked at me, in the little things.
The words didn't matter as much, not when the feelings were so obvious.
But not anymore. Now, all I could hear was the silence where the words should've been.
I'd stayed before because I felt the love in everything he did, even without the words.
I believed in the quiet moments. The way he held me, the way he let me in when he'd been so guarded before.
But now... the silence between us felt louder.
It felt like something was missing, something that had been there once but was slipping away.
I was staying for now because I still loved him.
Even though it hurt. Even though I knew he didn't love me the way I loved him.
I loved him. God, I loved him more than I had ever loved anyone in my life.
It was the kind of love that left me breathless, that made my chest ache when I thought about him, about us, and how everything was so wrong, and yet so beautiful.
But deep down, I knew the truth. In another life, I might have been the love of his life, the one he couldn't live without.
In a different world, maybe I would've been the one who didn't need to search for the words because they would've come so easily between us.
Maybe we would've had a future, built something that could last. But not here. Not now.
I wasn't the one for him.
He would always love Lyra. She would always be the fire in his chest, the one who lit him up in ways I couldn't, and no matter how deeply I cared, I would never be enough to change that.
So I am staying for now because I loved him too much to walk away when he needed me. I am staying because, right now, he was broken. If I could make his world even a little bit better, even just for a little while, I would. Because I loved him. I still loved him, despite everything.
But I couldn't stay forever. Not like this.
Once he was better, once the pain faded and the scars healed, I would leave. I would disappear into the quiet, and I would wish him the best. I would wish him everything because he deserved it.
Even if that life, the one where he loved me the way I loved him, was never meant to be.