Darcel:
The fire in the hearth crackled softly, casting long shadows across the room. Frankie sat on the edge of the bed, her fingers absently tracing the faint scars on her arms. She was quiet, her gaze fixed on the window where the first hints of dusk painted the sky in muted purples and grays.
I leaned against the doorframe, watching her. I didn't need to ask what she was thinking—I could feel the weight of it in the air between us, thick and heavy like a storm waiting to break.
"You're too quiet," I said finally, my voice breaking the room's stillness.
Frankie turned her head slightly, a small, tired smile tugging at her lips. "Isn't that what you like about me?"
I pushed off the frame and crossed the room, sitting beside her. "No," I said simply. "I like it when you fight back."
