Page 29 of These Tears

Even in nothing but a plain white crewneck and prison-issued joggers, he steals the bloody air from the yard.

And without chains dragging his body into submission, there’s suddenly far too much of him: too much height, too much strength, too much man standing loose on the same plate of concrete as me.

Everything in me pulls tight as if I’ve stepped off a cliff and only just realised there’s no ground beneath me.

‘Happy birthday!’ I call halfway across the yard.

The corner of his mouth lifts a little as he turns to face me fully, sunlight sliding over the hard planes of his body. The thin cotton of his shirt clings to the breadth of his chest, throwing staccato shadows over the muscle beneath, as he clasps his hands behind his back like a man trying very hard to look harmless.

It doesn’t work. If anything, hiding those big hands only makes me more aware of what they could do should he decide to use them.

Something must be profoundly cracked in me, because the thought scrambles my common sense and makes me want to prod at the beast instead of run the other way.

His gaze slides down to the box in my hands – the cake that survived the security search now sitting crooked and faintly tragic inside.

‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I promise it tastes better than it looks.’

A soft chuckle escapes him, the faintest glimpse of teeth flashing.

‘Best birthday ever,’ he murmurs, and I’m somewhat worried that I already recognise how that twitch of his brow signals the joke before the words are out.

He joins me by the bench, gesturing for us to sit – but the movement places his hand in front of me and—

My legs root to the ground.

Violet bruises ring both wrists.

Rage punches straight through my chest.

Instinct over thought, I reach out and snatch his hand, balancing the small cake in my other.

He goes completely still as I lift one hurt forearm between us.

His fingers curl – a reflex he doesn’t quite manage to suppress – and only then do I realise… this is the first time I’ve ever really touched him and held the contact.

Despite the outrage, the yard seems to shrink around us, a gust of air seemingly too loud.

I lift my eyes to his. For once, there’s no defence in them. No sarcasm. Only uncertainty.

‘What happened?’ I ask, trying to find some strength to send it to my vocal cords.

His skin feels warm beneath my fingers. Nothing like the distant, untouchable man in chains behind letters and ink.

Slowly, as if testing whether I’ll vanish if he moves too abruptly, Crane lets his hand relax. He withdraws it and hides it behind his back as if not seeing it would make the hurt go away.

His restraint does something far worse to me.

‘Just the way things are.’

That is his explanation.

I search his face as the space between his brows tightens.

‘This is a prison, Leah. A place of punishment. I’m accused of murder.’

Somewhere beyond the wall, a gate slams hard enough to send a shudder through the bricks. As if to underline the grave reality of where we are. The sun still warms my skin, the breeze brushes lightly across it, but I no longer feel any of it.

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