Page 60 of Make Them Bleed

“You okay?” he asks softly.

It’s such an Arrow question—gentle, habitual—that it scrapes something raw. “No.”

He nods like he expected that. “Can I do anything that isn’t ‘leave’?”

I pull in a breath and let it out slow. “You broke my trust.”

He flinches. “I did.”

“I’m not sure I can forgive that yet.”

He swallows. “That’s fair.”

“I want to,” I add, a whisper I didn’t plan to release. “But wanting hasn’t caught up to… everything else.”

“I can wait,” he says. No theatrics. No vows. Just a statement like the weather.

“I don’t want you waiting like a guard dog,” I say, harsher than I intend. “I don’t want to be watched.”

“I hear you.” He scrubs a hand over the back of his neck, then drops it. “I’ll show up when you ask. Not when I think.”

Silence stretches thin and tight. I should leave. I should lock this room behind me and go home to color circles until the panic finds something to do. Instead, I step forward like a tide tugging me by the ankle.

“You still…” I clear my throat. Try again. “Last time, when I said ‘touch me,’ you listened.” The memory flashes hot and humiliating and good. “Right now I don’t want comfort. I want truth. Can you give me that?”

“Yes,” he says immediately.

I lift a hand and set my palm against his chest. His heartbeat is a staccato rabbit. “Then kiss me like someone who knows he may not get to do it tomorrow.”

His breath shakes. “Juno?—”

“Don’t talk,” I whisper. “Just—truth.”

He steps in. His hand hovers at my jaw as if asking permission. I tip my face up. The first brush is cautious, a question. I press closer and the question dissolves. Heat flickers under my skin, and the world narrows to the slide of his mouth on mine. He kisses like apology and hunger can coexist—gentle then desperate, an anchor then a spark. My fingers fist in his shirt. His body crowds mine to the edge of the table and every nerve ending I have votes we stop being mad and start being reckless.

I break first, breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine. “If we keep going,” I say, voice wrecked, “I’ll forgive you for the next ten minutes and hate myself in the morning.”

He huffs a laugh that isn’t funny. “Standing down.”

I smooth my thumb over his cheekbone, a motion my body memorized before my brain could object. “Don’t think this fixes anything.”

“It doesn’t,” he says. “But I’m grateful for the data point.”

I snort, which breaks the pressure enough to breathe without sobbing. He steps back, giving me space. The room becomes a room again.

“Text me the minute you get home,” he says softly.

“I will,” I say, and mean it.

At the door, I look back. He’s standing with his hands in his pockets like he doesn’t trust them near me. His eyes are the warm-brown espresso I once demanded from a mask. I don’t sayI forgive you. I say, “Don’t be late tomorrow.”

“For the plan or for the bagels?” he asks, a ghost of a smile.

“Both,” I say, and disappear into the stairwell before my resolve changes its mind. Outside, the river air bites my lungs and I realize I’m smiling for the first time today. It’s small and stupid and not the same as forgiveness.

But it’s a start. And so is a plan to light Nico Armand’s shadow on fire.

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