The question hung in the air like smoke, lingering long after Layla had spoken. I stared at the fire, its flickering light painting shadows on the walls of the cave, as her words echoed in my head.
"Why do you always act cold? Like you don't want love?"
What kind of question was that? And why did it feel like it struck deeper than it should? I could feel her head resting on my lap, her breathing steady yet expectant, as if she was holding onto the silence, waiting for me to shatter it.
My first instinct was to deflect, to brush it off with some flippant remark. It wasn't her business, after all.
My personal life had no bearing on this job, on keeping her safe until help arrived. Yet, a part of me the part still reeling from the way her hands had lingered on my back, gentle but firm wanted to answer.
But what was the point? What good could come from exposing the parts of myself I'd buried so deeply?
