The room was cold, sterile, and as perfect as Thatcher Pierson himself. She stood trembling in the center, her voice rising as she stared at the man who had dismantled her heart piece by piece.

“You can’t even touch me, Thatcher!” she screamed, tears streaming down her face. “You say you care, but you can’t brush against me without flinching. Do you know what that feels like? To be with someone who looks at you like you’re dirty?”

Thatcher sat rigid on the sofa, his blue eyes sharp but silent. His hands were clasped tightly, betraying his usual composed exterior.

“You’re using me,” she continued, her voice cracking. “I’m just here because I make you feel less alone. But I can’t do this anymore. I can’t love someone who won’t even try!”

Her sobs filled the silence, and she turned away, wrapping her arms around herself. “I don’t even know why I love you. Maybe I’m as broken as you are.”

The silence stretched painfully until finally, Thatcher stood. His movements were deliberate, almost hesitant.

“You think I don’t touch you because I don’t want to?” he said, his voice raw. “You’re everything. You think I don’t ache to hold you? It’s all I think about.” His voice faltered, and Noa turned to see his blue eyes glistening with emotion.

“I don’t touch you because I’m terrified,” he admitted. “Not of you—of me. I’ve built walls my entire life, and you… you’ve made me want to tear them down. But I don’t know how.”

Tears blurred her vision as he stepped closer, his hands trembling. “You’re not a distraction. You’re the only thing that makes me feel alive. And if I’ve made you feel less than that, then I’ve failed you.”