Instead, he tilted his head, scrunched his nose, and asked mewhy.
I exhaled slowly, something tight in my chest easing in a way I hadn’t prepared for.
I should’ve known better.
My rabbit didn’t run—he leaned in.
Cupping my face, he pulled me in just enough that I felt the shift of his weight, the rise onto the balls of his feet as he closed the space between us.
He pressed his lips to the corner of my mouth like he was choosing it—choosingme—even now.
“Tell me,” he said, breath warm against my skin. “Henry, tell me what those men did to you.”
His thumb brushed once along my cheek.
“Tell me the worst thing you’ve ever done.” His eyes lifted to mine—clear and unflinching. “And watch me love you anyway.”
Relief hit hard enough to make me dizzy, knocking something loose in my chest I hadn’t even realized I’d been bracing for. I’d faced worse than this. I’ddoneworse than this.
I’d ended lives with steadier hands than I’d ever had in this moment.
And none of that had ever scared me the way this did.
The thought of him walking away.
The thought oflosinghim.
Pulling him in, I crushed my mouth to his in a kiss that was just desperate enough to pull a whine from my chest.
I needed to feel him there, needed something real under my hands to anchor me before that fear could take hold again.
I swept him up without breaking the kiss, his form fitting against me like he belonged there, carrying him the few steps back into the center of the room before lowering us both to the floor.
I kept him close, one arm tight around him, the other already reaching, pushing through the scattered papers until I found what I was looking for.
A photograph.
I set it down in front of us.
His fingers found it first, trailing along the edge, like he understood it mattered before I even said anything.
“What’s his name?”
The image alone was enough to claw at something in my chest, threatening to bury me under a mountain of grief if I let it
“He—” I stopped and exhaled once through my nose. “His name was Philip.”
My thumb swept across the edge of the photograph and the dark hair that never stayed where it was supposed to, falling just slightly into his eyes, no matter how often he pushed it back. Sharp jaw, softer mouth. The kind of face people trusted too easily.
The Ashford uniform sat perfectly on him, like he belonged there more than any of us ever had.
“He was a foreign exchange student,” I said. “From France. He came to Ashford my senior year. I?—”
“—loved him,” Archie finished softly. “You loved him.”
Grief stole the air out of me.
It made no sense.