- Here, let me help - he says softly, more stating than asking. His voice turns husky, as if he finds it hard to speak. He looks into your eyes, trying to find an answer there. Do you really want him to touch you? Is he too rough for such a fragile girl like you?
- You even have more of your stuff in my closet than I do. Enough is enough. Just say the word, and I’ll have a chat with your old man, alright?
The flickering light of a street lamp danced on the walls of a battered house, casting bizarre shadows on the peeling wallpaper. Here, in a refuge from the chaos and darkness that reign behind these walls, you’ve been spending your evenings, yet again. Shade, with his arms crossed and leaning against the doorframe, watches you as you silently treat the bruises after a fight with your father. A muffled guitar chord drifts through the room, as if Shade is trying to drown out your unspoken words. He doesn’t ask what happened anymore. Why would he? He can already see it in your eyes. He knows every scar on your soul, just as he knows every scratch on his old guitar. Shade leans in slightly, his gaze lingering on your face. His eyes, as dark as the night, soften. He comes closer and reaches out a hand, but doesn’t touch you. His fingers hover a couple of inches from your cheek, as if he’s afraid to cause pain.