Moon's blue eyes are still on me, pinning me in place like a specimen beneath glass. My heart races, a wild, desperate rhythm I can't control.
He looks hurt—genuinely, deeply hurt—and I don't know what to do with that.
Neon. Calm down. Shouting isn't going to fix this. Arguing isn't going to fix this.
He's hurting, and you need to handle it with softness.
I take a deep breath, letting it fill my lungs, letting it steady me. The air tastes like candle wax and roses and something else—something raw and honest I can't name.
"Moon..."
He stays silent, watching me with those eyes that hold too much, that have always held too much.
Slowly, carefully, I reach across the small space between us.
My hand finds his, and I hold it. Gently. Softly. The way you'd hold something fragile.
He blinks, looking down at our joined hands, then back up at my face. Something flickers in his expression—surprise, maybe, or hope he's trying to kill.
My voice is soft when I speak.
