Cassel — POV
I knew Rosalia was struggling to breathe, yet I didn't let her go.
I didn't pull away from her lips.
I didn't loosen my hold on her trembling body.
I didn't stop the kiss.
Her breath hitched against mine, uneven and fragile, like a flame flickering on the edge of being extinguished.
I felt it—every shudder, every stifled gasp—as if her lungs were pressed directly against my own chest.
Her warmth seeped into me, soaked into my bones, and I clung to it desperately.
Because only—only—by touching her body, by feeling her breath and her warmth beneath my palms, could I be certain that she was still here.
That she had not disappeared.
That she had not shattered like so many other things in my life.
I was afraid.
Afraid that if I let go, even for a second, she would vanish—fade away like mist at dawn, leaving nothing behind but regret and the echo of her name.
And yet—
I regretted it.
I regretted it bitterly. Deeply.
I regretted forcing her to speak.
