Page 36 of Breaking Isolde

I go back to Archer House around one. The house is empty, as always. I dump my bag in my room, strip off my jacket, and check my neck in the mirror. The bruise is already yellowing shaped exactly like the curve of his hand.

If I’m being honest, I don’t hate it and I hate that I don’t.

I stare at my reflection for a long time. My face is thin, eyes dark, mouth bruised at the corner, but I don’t look like a victim. I look like someone who’s about to win.

I open the window, let the cold in, and breathe until the air hurts. Then I grab the photo of Casey from the desk, stare at her smile, and make another promise:

Whatever path I choose, I hope I honor you, my dear Casey.

That night, I hear the knock on my window.

It’s late, hours past curfew, and the world outside is silent except for the scrape of bare branches on glass. I wait, pretend I’m asleep, but the knock comes again—softer this time, almost polite.

I get up, cross the room, and slide the window open.

He’s standing on the fire escape, hands in his pockets, hair wild from the wind. His eyes are green fire, but the rest of his face is shut down tight.

“You gonna invite me in?” he says, voice flat.

“Why?” I say. “You want to apologize?”

He shrugs. “No.”

I almost laugh. “Then fuck off.”

But he doesn’t move. He just stands there, breathing like every inhale is a question.

“I meant what I said,” he says finally. “About wanting you.”

I lean out the window, hair blowing in my face. “You don’t know what you want, Rhett. You never did.”

He’s so still he might be carved out of stone. “Maybe. But I know you’re the only thing I think about anymore.”

I feel a shiver go down my spine, but I don’t let him see it.

“I should hate you,” I say.

“You do.”

I nod. “Yeah. But that’s not stopping either of us, is it?”

He shakes his head, a tiny movement. “No.”

We stare at each other, the space between us full of everything we didn’t say in the greenhouse. I want to reach out, touch his face, see if it’s as cold as it looks. I want to punch him, too.

Instead, I say, “Go home, Rhett.”

He laughs, just once. “You’re a real piece of work, Isolde.”

“So are you,” I say. “But mine comes with a warning label.”

He leans in, just enough that I can feel his breath, warm and reckless in the winter air. “Next time you try to get me off of you,” he says, “make it hurt or I’m taking it as consent.”

I slam the window in his face, but not before I see him smile.

He doesn’t leave right away. I hear him sit on the metal landing, hear the creak of the stairs as he leans back and lights a cigarette. He stays there for almost an hour, just outside the glass, the smoke drifting in and mixing with the lavender I use to keep my nightmares away.

Eventually, he’s gone.