The knife of her own making twisted when Warren took her hands from his face. Regan wanted to swallow the words back up again; to replace them with something more palatable, less true. She held his hands tightly as if he were the last thing holding her as she dangled off a precarious ledge. For a moment, a dangerous moment, Regan’s mouth opened. The truth about her, Cassian, and Alys almost tumbled off her tongue—but the moment passed. Regan wouldn’t make herself a hypocrite now. She’d come too far, taken too much to throw it away.

But still, Regan wanted him. Wanted his warmth, his openness, his care, and consideration—all the things that Cassian couldn’t provide. Because yes, she needed Cassian, but in this moment what she wanted more than anything was the man in front of her. She wanted the vision of a life that he’d painted in the darkness of his room; so beautiful but seemingly unattainably so.

Regan just stared with dark, shining eyes as her heart pounded with panic. When he pulled closer to kiss her forehead, she closed them, a few stray tears escaping down her cheeks. Regan didn’t want Warren to see her cry. It wouldn’t be fair. So, when she shifted from his lap, she turned her head and hurriedly brushed her tears away.

You’ve done this, Regan thought to herself. Don’t make him comfort you when it’s something you’ve done. Because he will, you know he will.

When he stood, Regan remained on the bed and stared at the floor. He was right. She and Othello had a task ahead, one with very little margin for error. Regan nodded, hair coming unseated from its place behind her ear as she waited for the threat of tears to subside.

After Warren stopped speaking, Regan was quiet for a moment.

“Okay.” She didn’t want to go, but it was clear she needed to. Regan stood, tucking her hair back behind her ear. She stalled for a moment, finally looking at Warren again.

“Can I write you a little, maybe? Just to know you're, uh, okay? I’m not the best, but I’d like to try.”