You reach for her arm.

She’s been distant all day—restless, pacing, heat rolling off her in waves. You just want to be near her. You don’t say anything, just tug lightly on the thick band of muscle near her elbow. A touch. A quiet ask.

Her head snaps toward you.

“What?” she growls, too loud, too sharp. “Always want. Always need—why now?”

You shrink back instinctively, startled. Not from her words, but the force behind them. Her eyes flash, mandibles flaring wide—and that’s when she sees it.

You didn’t speak.

You flinched.

Her breath hitches.

In one motion, she’s in front of you, then lowering herself—huge, burning, regretful.

“No. No no no…”

You’re lifted, arms scooped under your knees and back. She holds you close, clutching you to her chest like you might vanish.

“I… I yell,” she says. “I… wrong. You only want… me.”

She presses her face into your neck, breath hot, words muffled.

“I hurt… the one thing I keep safe. I… too much. I am sorry.”

You don’t speak. You don’t move. But your heart pounds against hers. And her grip never loosens.

Not again. Not ever.