Whitebark Stream crawling back to you

he stills.
her voice—quiet, final—lands harder than any strike. not because it wounds, but because it denies him what he came here for. the fight. the flame. the one thing they’ve always had between them, twisted and violent and real.
but she gives him nothing.
don’t call me that, he says, but there’s no bite to it this time. no fire. the words drop from his tongue like stone. heavy. unfinished.
his eyes rake her face. not to hurt. to find something—anything—of the woman he once loved like a starving man at a feast. but there’s no feast here. only bones. only frost. only her tired gaze, the kind only grief can give.
his jaw clenches.
you were the first thing i ever wanted, he admits, voice rough, cracked by truth. and the first thing i ever lost. he steps back. not far. just enough. the heat between them ebbs, not broken, but folded. drawn inward.
go, anoré.