Alex didn't know how long he sat there.
Could have been minutes. Could have been hours.
Time felt... irrelevant. Meaningless.
Like the countdown still pulsing at the edge of his vision.
[4 hours, 13 minutes remaining.]
His breathing had finally steadied... no longer the gasping, desperate gulps of someone drowning, but the hollow, exhausted rhythm of someone who'd barely made it to shore.
His hands had stopped shaking.
Mostly.
The trembling in his fingers persisted... a faint, constant reminder of how close he'd come to crossing a line he could never uncross.
He dropped his hands from his face and stared at them.
These hands had touched her waist. Had felt the silk of her blouse, the warmth of her skin beneath.
These hands had almost...
No.
He clenched them into fists, nails biting into his palms.
You stopped. You stopped before...
But the distinction felt thinner than it should have.
