SERAPHINA'S POV
"What do you mean you can get me that chance?" I ask, genuinely puzzled.
His face lights up with mischief. Raising an eyebrow and winking at me, he pulls his phone from his pocket.
"Give me a minute," he says, rising to walk away and make a call.
Left alone, I'm swallowed by my thoughts, my guilt, and my sadness-reliving the moments and words I regret. I need to forgive myself, to face my flaws and look beyond them.
Perhaps then, I can overcome this load of emotions. I want to be friends with Artemis again, and a big part of me still yearns to discover more about myself, regardless of whatever dangers lurk ahead.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, pulling me back to the present. Olivia's name flashes on the screen.
"Hey, Olive," I greet her, the phone pressed against my ear.
I'm about to thank her for the walk suggestion, to let her know about my encounter with Jasper and how much lighter I feel, when her ragged breathing interrupts me.
"Olivia, is something wrong?"
I hear a sniffle on her end, and my posture tightens instinctively.
"Talk to me, please," I demand softly.
She inhales deeply before finally speaking, "It's Artemis... something's wrong."
"Artemis?" My heart pounds, filling my ears.
A slew of questions threatens to drown me: Is he with her? Is he hurt? Is this my fault?
I push them away, focusing on what matters.
"Where is he?"
"The sparring hall in school. You have to hurry."
"Okay, I'm on my way."
Disconnecting the call, I stuff the phone into my pocket and turn to Jasper with an urgency in my eyes.
"Artemis is in trouble."
"What happened?"
"I don't know," I say, forcing myself to breathe. Panic threatens to collapse my lungs and make my heart burst from my chest. But I keep it at bay. "We have to go. Now."
He nods, showing surprising calm. And then we run. I put every ounce of strength into my legs, ignoring the burn in my muscles and the shallow gasps that escape my lips.
Jasper may be faster, but he's left trailing behind.
All I think about is Artemis-those soft light-blue eyes that brighten when he smiles, that laughter that's so genuine and light, the man whose kiss set me on fire with desire, and the person I care for so deeply that it fractures my own heart.
Before I know it, I've burst into the school and the sparring hall is just steps away.
I'm breathing hard, too hard, coughing from the stress on my lungs, desperate for more air. My eyes frantically search for him, and then there he is.
He stands on the opposite end, gazing at me with eyes wide and shocked, lips slightly parted, his breathing almost as hard and fast as my own.
His hair is disheveled, and heavy bags are under his eyes, but it's him, nonetheless.
A sudden awareness hits me: it's been way too fucking long since I've seen him, and just seeing him standing there overfills my already pounding heart. He's not bleeding or hurt, not gasping for air.
He's okay.
The door behind me slams shut, the locks clicking into place.
"Sera?"
He rushes toward me like a gust of wind, his hands reaching out to me without a hint of hesitation or resistance. My heart aches at his touch.
His hands cup my face gently but firmly, eyes scanning every inch of me as though searching for something, treating me like I'm some fragile object ready to crack under slight pressure.
"Are you hurt?" He asks, tilting my head to inspect it, lifting my arms, turning me around. "Did anyone lay a hand on you? I swear, I'm going to kill them in the most gruesome way."
"I'm fine," I interject, taking his face in my hands so he has no choice but to look into my eyes.
I remind myself to breathe-breathe in, breathe out.
When he finally meets my gaze, a certain calm washes over him; his breathing slows, his eyes softening.
"Are you hurt?" It's my turn to ask.
He shakes his head slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding; he's okay.
Tears fill my eyes, and I shatter, breaking apart like fragile porcelain, crumbling into millions of pieces, as though the very ligands holding me together have been torn apart.
"Sera..." The way he says my name, his brows furrowed and eyes a sorrowful blue, it does something to me.
He doesn't look away; he doesn't let go.
He holds me.
The sound of my name on his lips after such an absence is the final straw.
I explode into sobs, wailing uncontrollably, clutching onto his arm as if it's my last lifeline, my lips trembling with each heaving cry.
"I'm sorry," I manage to say through a flood of tears, forcing out the words I've been yearning to utter, knowing that if I don't seize this moment, it could be gone forever.
"I'm sorry. I never wanted to hurt you, to cut us off like this. I was wrong-so terribly wrong. I shouldn't have listened to Kamila, I shouldn't have let her words influence me, make me think I could live with what I'd done."
The words tumble out in a rushed, incoherent jumble. I sneeze and choke on each syllable, sniffling between confessions. It's ugly, it's raw, but I don't hold back.
I let him see just how much his absence has destroyed me, how the idea of never speaking to him again is unbearable, how much I regret driving him away.
Tears of hot liquid regret and guilt stream down my face; my nose clogs, forcing me to gasp for air through my mouth.
"I'm sorry for stabbing you, for being so mean to you, for making everything about me and being so goddamn selfish," I blurt out, my tears probably repulsive, snot trailing down my nose, my eyes puffy and red.
I brace myself for his revulsion. But when our eyes lock, what I see is anything but.
He leans in, pressing his forehead against mine, making no attempt to hide the tear that escapes from the corner of his eye and slides down his cheek.
"Shhh," he whispers, his lips curling into a tender, comforting smile. "It's okay."
His words are like a balm on my unstable nerves, enough for my tears to cease, enough for me to close my eyes and lose myself in the serenity of this moment-vulnerable, yes, but held safely in his arms.
"You don't have to be sorry," he says, his voice crackling with rawness. "You don't have to be anything other than yourself. I was the ass. You didn't deserve any of it." His hands tremble as they hold me, his vulnerability laid bare.
"I don't deserve to know you, to hold you like this, to breathe you in." He presses a soft, lingering kiss on my forehead, drawing in a shaky breath as he pulls away. "You shouldn't have to put up with me. You don't have to."
"But I want to," I reply, locking my gaze with his.
He's speechless again, entranced by the intensity of our stare-down, each waiting for the other to yield.
Finally, he does.
With a labored intake of breath, he leans in once more. He kisses each eye, soft as a whisper, then trails down to my cheeks, kissing away the tracks left by my tears, until he reaches my lips.
And when he kisses me there, it's as if he's staking a claim on what's already his.
He kisses the pain away, each press of his lips driving away the pieces of my brokenness, leaving nothing but a sweet numbness that elevates me, as if I'm floating.
In that moment, I feel nothing else-nothing but him.