The confession

Logan’s P.O.V

Perching lightly on the edge of the bed, my eyes roved over her agitated face. Ensuring not to disrupt her slumber, I leaned in, my fingers trailing delicate paths across her pale, soft skin. My touch ventured to her dry, parted lips as she took in gentle breaths. Her skin looked clammy and sickly, nothing like the delicious creamy softness I adored. Lashes so long it caressed her cheeks, hiding the dark bags that had grown under her eyes, a clear indication of her weariness despite being unconscious. My fingertips traced the dry trails of tears on her cheeks. A pang of guilt clutched my heart, and I closed my eyes, letting it consume me whole. Because I knew that I was the cause of her current state.

I sighed to myself. A part of me was glad that she wasn’t awake because I didn’t want to see the look in her eyes when she takes me in or listen to what I wanted to confess, not to only her, but also to myself.

“I know that I forced you into my world,” I began in a hushed