Dane's POV:
Time freezes.
Like the air thickens, and neither of us can move without breaking something we won't be able to fix.
We stay there forever, lashing out without touching, suspended in this narrow strip of reality where anger and grief live side by side.
Her chest heaves.
My jaw grinds.
My lungs barely remember how to work.
My palm itches.
I'm so close.
Too close.
I curl my fingers into a fist, nails biting into my skin, trying to bleed the impulse out of me.
Do it once.
Breathe.
Do it twice.
Breathe harder.
Do it a third time.
I can still feel the warmth of her skin under my hand, the faint sting where I'd grabbed her.
I pull my hand back, slow, like dragging it through wet cement.
And on her cheek, faint and fading, my fingers have left their ghost.
It looks like a mark.
And somewhere between us, a wall rises — tall, cold, absolute.
