[Meredith].
Draven and I walked side by side along the narrow path that curved away from the house.
The sun was already sinking, its light softened and amber, slipping between the trees in long slants that painted the ground in gold and shadow.
The heat of the day had faded, replaced by a cooler breeze that brushed against my skin and carried the scent of earth and leaves.
Everything felt quieter now. Draven didn't speak, and neither did I.
Our steps fell into a steady rhythm, close enough that our shoulders brushed once… then again. Each time it happened, my breath hitched, and I hated how much I noticed something so small.
I wanted him to hold my hand.
The thought came uninvited, simple and aching. It wasn't because I needed reassurance in words or because I was afraid.
I just wanted to feel him—to know, without asking, that he wasn't still holding himself apart from me, that there was no longer bitterness in his heart for me after how I hurt him.
