Darius’s arm held me like a hard arc, yet it didn’t squeeze. Against his chest I could feel his breath—deep, slow, as if he was forcing himself into calm. His thumb traced small circles on my wrist, and with each touch the same tingling rushed through me, making it at once easier and harder to breathe. The half-light of the tent pressed close around us, the dim glow seeping through the canvas casting pale stripes across the ground.
“This… this is it,” Darius whispered, as though afraid his voice might break it. “You feel it too.”
I nodded. I didn’t dare move more; my throat still hurt, my wound throbbed beneath the bandage, yet inside something else, a deep, stubborn force pulled me toward him. The pull. I didn’t want to name it, afraid that speaking the word would make it even more real
