°Amy’s POV°
I looked at Christian for a long moment, maybe too long. His eyes were steady on me, like he was waiting for something, waiting for me to open up, but I couldn’t tell what he really expected. It wasn’t necessary for him to know, was it? Why did he even want to know? What good would it do him—or me—if I peeled open wounds that I was still trying to stitch shut myself?
I sighed, the sound heavy and tired as it slipped out of me. My fingers found the little pendant hanging from my neck, rolling it between them the way I always did when I was nervous. My eyes fell on my lap, tracing the folds of the fabric pooled over my thighs. I stared so long it felt like maybe I could disappear into them if I just kept quiet. Another deep breath left me, rough and uneven.
“Well…” I started,
