Shards of Memory [English - Under Revision]

Chapter 38: Unravel

Skylane

The stairwell up from Trocadéro always smells like rain and metal—wet stone, brake dust, that faint, bitter sting of electricity. I took the steps two at a time, scarf tight around my throat, mind already halfway home to tea and a shower and a night of pretending I didn't think about him.

And then I saw him.

Halfway up the last flight, a tall silhouette leaned against the rail, head bowed, hands tucked into the pockets of a dark jacket. The late light cut him into clean lines—jaw, cheekbones, a mouth I knew far too well.

For a beat the station dissolved. Paris, commuters, announcements—everything blurred out to the same white noise you get inside your own head when you've been stubborn too long. Then the noise snapped back and I did the only thing I could do without cracking apart:

I walked right past him.

"Sky."

Two letters, wrecking-ball soft. I kept my eyes on the last four steps and the slice of sky beyond them. He moved, careful, matching my pace with that athlete economy I used to tease him for.

"Missy—Skylane. Please."

Don't you dare. I clutched my bag strap until the leather squeaked.

The city's chill slapped my cheeks as I hit the street. The tower speared the sky to my left, slate roofs shouldered clouds to the right. I aimed for the crosswalk.

Footsteps behind me. Closer.

"Are you really not going to—"

A hissed breath. The steps stuttered. The sound of a body folding in on itself for a second, a hand catching the waist-high iron fence at the curb.

I should've kept going. I didn't.

I turned.

Blaise stood bent a little, one hand braced, the other clamped low at his side under the line of his jacket. He tried to straighten like nothing hurt and winced again, jaw clenching. When his eyes flicked up to mine, they had the same stubborn light I hated and loved and had tried very hard to forget.

"You're hurt," I said, though we both heard the accusation inside it: Of course you are. Of course you drag blood into everything.

He laughed—of course he did. "Bonjour to you, too."

"Don't." The word came out sharper than a slap. Paris faded; the funnel of the moment narrowed down to us and the stupid, inevitable gravity between our bodies. "Lift your shirt."

"Right here? In public?" He lifted his brows, aiming for cocky. The edge faltered when he breathed in too deep.

I stepped into his space before he could aim another joke like a shield, fingers already at the hem of his jacket. "Don't play with me, Blaise Pollington. Shirt. Up."

He exhaled, surrendered the smallest nod. I peeled layers—jacket, hoodie, t-shirt—and stopped breathing.

A wide, clean bandage wrapped his midsection, white against the tan of his skin, the edges already shadowed pink where the tape tugged. A bruise bloomed old-violet along his ribs.

My face went cold.

"What happened?" It came out flat. Dangerous.

"It's not as bad as it looks," he said lightly, which was not an answer.

"What. Happened." The words had weight now.

He offered me that sideways smile he thinks buys him time. "I'll tell you inside. Please, missy. Not on a sidewalk."