He’d like to think when they met, he glimpsed what she’d become. Or felt a chill, the first time he touched her. Would love to rewrite every time he came, teeth tight on a bitten-off name he’d rather was bloody Quentin’s instead of hers.

But he didn’t, there wasn’t, and he can’t.

So he watches the blood-sticky shard slice air, then skin, and remembers when he wished she’d pay him some attention; not see him as a failure; respect (fuck) him...

Now he just wishes she’d stop looking as if she’s the one being tortured here.

Or just stop -

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