With those words, he had upped and left me alone.
The steam fogged up the edge of the mirror, but I didn’t wipe it away. I stood there longer than I should’ve after the shower, wrapped in the robe, fingers tracing slow lines over the foggy glass. My reflection was blurred—fitting, really. Everything about me felt smudged lately. Blurred lines. Blurred loyalties. Blurred heart.
Vincent had saved me.
Not with some grand gesture, not with flowers or declarations. But with his hands steady around my waist as I slipped, his voice low and urgent—“It’s me.”
I had felt it in that moment. He hadn’t come to punish. He came because he still... cared. Or something close to it.
And now I can’t stop thinking about it.
He didn’t have to help me. He could’ve let me fall. Could’ve walked away. But he
