Page 57 of Break Me Apart
“I am unbearable, thank you very much.” I huff.
We leave the hotel with the kind of caution that has nothing to do with Amsterdam and everything to do with habit. I scan crowds and exits without thinking. I watch people’s hands, faces, and body language. Civilians move around like they own the world because lets face it, most of them think they do. The carelessness of it irritates me immediately.
Caiden walks beside me. He doesn’t scan the same way I do, but he pays attention. He glances at me once, reads the tension in my shoulders, and says nothing.
That’s another small mercy.
Amsterdam in daylight is almost offensive in its ease. Canals, bridges, people on bicycles weaving through tight spaces. Couples holding hands openly, not just men and women — men and men, women and women — leaning into each other without checking who’s watching first.
Caiden sees me looking before I can pretend that I’m not, but he doesn’t point it out. He looks up at the buildings, at the narrow windows and the way life is stacked neatly on top of itself here as if that’s normal.
Finally, we get to a museum, and I follow Caiden through rooms full of art I don’t pretend to understand. He stops in front of a painting and actually looks at it, head tilted slightly, as if he’s trying to solve a colourful puzzle.
His face does that thing where it softens when he’s genuinely interested, and I find myself watching him instead of the painting.
The light from the window catches across his skin differently in here, enough that I notice the faint freckles scattered over his nose and cheeks that I somehow never paid attention to before.
He leans closer to read the plaque beside the frame, brow furrowing slightly in concentration, and I catch myself staring at the shape of his lips instead of whatever historical nonsense he’s currently trying to absorb.
As we walk down a corridor between exhibits, Caiden’s hand brushes mine. He lets his fingers slide along my knuckles, testing my reaction and asking without words.
My body reacts before my mind can organise my thoughts — it’s a sharp, instinctive recoil. I snatch my hand back.
He doesn’t say anything, but a look of disappointment crosses his face. He tries to hide it, but I see it anyway. “Not here,” I say quietly.
He keeps his eyes forward. “We’re in Amsterdam.”
“I know,” I answer, sharper than I intend. “We can still be seen.” By who? By what? By a phantom I can’t name? By the idea that there is always someone watching?
Caiden’s jaw tightens, and he nods. “Alright.” He doesn’t argue with me, which makes me feel worse.
We walk on, standing in front of another painting. He reads another plaque. I pretend to read it too, but I’m more interested in the crowd. People move around us, indifferent, anonymous, completely free.
I should be able to hold his hand, but I just can’t bring myself to do it.
When we leave the museum, it’s brighter outside, and the sky has decided to cooperate, making the city look almost cheerful. Caiden buys coffee from a small place that smells like sugar, baked dough and too much happiness. He hands me a cup without asking what I want because he knows what I drink.
The café is by the water. It’s cramped, busy, and full of voices in languages I don’t care about. We sit at a small table where Caiden’s knee bumps mine under it, and hedoesn’t move away. He watches the canal for a moment, then looks back at me. “Are you alright?”
“No,” I confess because I don’t want to lie.
“Because of the hand?” he asks, eyes holding mine.
“Because of everything,” I say.
He doesn’t push, only nods. “Okay.”
It annoys me that he can be this calm about something that should make him angry. “Say something,” I tell him, because his silence makes me feel like an asshole.
“What do you want me to say?” he asks, lifting an eyebrow.
“I don’t know,” I snap, then I take a deep breath. “I want to... hold your hand,” I admit.
“Then do it.”
I clench my jaw. “It’s not that easy.”
He leans back slightly in his chair, watching me. “It can be, if you let it.” Then he reaches across the table and touches the back of my hand with his fingers. It’s the smallest possible version of the thing he wants.
