One Word Breaks

Carl's thumb shifts from her jaw to the corner of her mouth, and she shudders once. 'Say it,' he murmurs, not a command now—a nearly broken thing. Her lips part, and the word that comes out is raw, half-strangled. 'Why—' She stops, swallows, and the rest of the sentence dies in her throat, but her eyes finally meet his, wet and furious and desperate. He doesn't answer either; he just pulls her forward until her forehead presses against his collarbone, the bike creaking under their shared weight.