His Voice Alone

Chapter 7

Ezra’s POV

Distance is a strategy, not surrender. I'm not avoiding Leia—I'm letting her marinate in the tension I've built around her like a fucking art installation.

She's not ready yet, but I felt the exact moment something shifted that night when her breath caught, when she trembled just from hearing me say her name.

Her body doesn't lie, even when her mouth does.

She's close now. So I wait, and I watch, because patience is just another weapon when you know how to use it properly.

Leia's life has become a pattern I could navigate blindfolded.

Two minutes of teeth brushing—she's methodical about it, probably counts the strokes. Double-locks her dorm door, then jiggles the handle three times like she's performing some kind of security ritual.

Her perfume changed last semester to something with cherries that makes me want to bury my face in her neck every time I catch a trace of it in the hallway.

I know when she's restless because her breathing changes.

Know which playlist she puts on loop when she's trying to calm herself down—mostly indie shit that sounds like emotional manipulation set to guitar strings.

And I know when she plays that file I left her.

Seven times now.

Seven fucking times she's listened to me say her name, listened to what comes after. The thought of my voice inside her head, filling up all that space she's trying to keep clear of me, is better than any drug I've ever tried.

I want to speak to her again.

Want to break this silence I've been living almost my whole life in since that damned car crash. But the anticipation is cutting both ways, and I'm not the only one bleeding.

I see her in the library, head bent over some textbook she definitely doesn't give a shit about, and she's not alone.

That football fucker Tyler's also there, leaning in like he has some kind of right to be in her personal space, their heads close enough that he could probably smell that cherry perfume.

When he touches her hand, something dark and vicious unfurls in my chest.

I don't move, don't make a sound. Just walk past their table with a smile that probably looks normal to anyone who doesn't know me well enough to recognize the warning signs. Someone like Leia.

Leia looks up, and I watch her expression flicker like a candle in the wind.

Her breath stutters, and I know she feels it too—this gravitational pull that's been dragging us toward each other since we were kids playing house in the orphanage.

She's unraveling. Has been for weeks.

Her eyes scan rooms now like she's expecting to find me lurking in the corners. Her footsteps hesitate in hallways.

She lingers in front of mirrors, probably searching for traces of who she used to be before I made her mine.

The thing about privacy is that it's mostly an illusion.

People think they have it because they want to believe in it, but wanting something doesn't make it real. Leia learned that lesson a long time ago, even if she's still pretending otherwise.

I know her schedule better than she does.

Every lecture, every break, every shortcut she takes between buildings because she thinks routine will somehow protect her from chaos.

I read the messages she writes but never sends—all those unfinished thoughts, shame-soaked curiosity about things she's too proud to ask for directly.

I don't do this to scare her. Fear is cheap, and what we have is worth more than that.

I do it to remind her: she's mine. And "mine" isn't something you get to walk away from just because geography changes.

Two days later, I'm already at the café when she walks in.

The place with crooked chairs and coffee that tastes like it was filtered through someone's gym socks. I picked a table in the back where the lighting is shit and the view is perfect.

She never sees me until I want her to.

Tyler's already claimed the window seat—probably got there twenty minutes early because he's the kind of guy who thinks punctuality is a personality trait.

He stands when she approaches, smiles like he thinks she belongs to him.

The laugh she gives him is soft, manufactured. Not real, but he buys it anyway because guys like Tyler don't know the difference between performance and authenticity.

His hand slides across the table to cover hers, and the taste of copper floods my mouth.

My hands curl into fists under the table, but the rage isn't sharp. It's steady, controlled. A quiet boiling thing that knows exactly where it wants to go.

That fucker smiles like she’s his, like he doesn’t even know she already belongs to someone.

He's touching what's mine like he has permission. Like he doesn't even realize she already belongs to someone. The ignorance would be almost endearing if it wasn't so fucking insulting.

I imagine it vividly, violently, because it soothes the screaming inside my skull.

I’d start with his arms.

Twist them behind his back until the joints snap like splintered wood, then rip them out from the sockets, muscle tearing with that thick, wet pop I crave.

I’d watch his skin split. Tendons stretching, blood gushing hot over my knuckles. He’d scream, high and helpless, and I’d laugh.

Then I’d drag him by the hair, slam his face into the alley wall outside that pathetic café until his nose caves in and his teeth turn to gravel in his mouth.

Again, again, and again. Until the laughter stops, until all that’s left are wet gurgles and bone.

I’d carve into his chest with the jagged edge of broken glass, deep and slow.

SHE’S NOT YOURS.

Letter by letter, into his meat, into his ribs, into his fucking soul.

Then I’d press my thumbs into his eyes, hard. Until they burst. The wet crack of it, the way they’d collapse under the pressure like spoiled fruit, it plays in my mind like a lullaby.

I’d scoop them out, nerves trailing like bloody worms, and toss them into the dirt where the strays wait with open jaws.

They’d feast on what he never deserved to see. And when they’re done, there’d be nothing left in Tyler’s skull but two black, oozing holes.

Just like the world would be, if she ever left me.

But that would be messy. Inefficient.

Better to let him dig his own grave with every casual touch, every presumptuous smile. Let him think he's winning while I document exactly how much he's going to lose.

He leans closer, whispers something. She blushes, then I snap another photo.

They get up a few minutes later, and she walks ahead while Tyler follows like a devoted golden retriever. I don't move, just watch through the window as they disappear around the corner.

I pull out my phone and scroll through the photos I took. Her face, the tilt of her head, his hand hovering near her hip like he's already claimed territory that was never his to begin with.

I won't touch her yet. But he touched my girl.

And second chances are for people who deserve them.