"He stepped down, trying not to look long as if she were the sun, yet he saw her, like the sun, even without looking."
- Leo Tolstoy

"AMANDINE," HE SPOKE once more, and I couldn't help but look at him—to make sure the voice matched the face. That I, in my state of anguish, had not been sent to heaven in which I saw him with unrivalled innocence and untainted by war. And he was the same man—he was, I was sure of it, but at the same time he wasn't. He wasn't, because my Jake Warrens did not wear blood on his sleeves, did not have his auburn locks grazed with dried stains and his polished boots dirtied by the blood of another. My Jake Warrens did not have a heaving chest nor did he hold alert amber eyes of fear—of anguish, and terror, and utter perplexity. It was as if it were the first time we'd spoke all again: that fear. It smelt the same, felt the same. Even the winds were the same: misplaced, and disrupting summers quaint gaze.

I was frozen in my place. Winter had seized summer, and I, for once, felt as though I was drowning: slowly, but surely.

I did not know what to do.

Beside me, I could feel the tense shoulders of Mollie. Her grip, however, was soft. Gentle. But her shoulders, and the very muscles that grazed her arms, were tense—ready for confrontation, ready to fight and protect. And Mollie resembled that of a Mother Hen, protecting her chicks from a wolf: a misunderstood, terrified wolf.

What irony.

"Amandine, I—"

"You better stop right there, Mister Warrens." Spoke Mollie, her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Don't take one more step toward Mandy, you hear?"

Jake paused. His amber eyes seemed to be calculating what was happening: first, scanning the room and then landing on me—narrowed, and with hurt. He released a shaky breath, and with it came the waves of fear that emitted from his burly structure: from the broad shoulders and stained torso, to the edges of his rounded boots. His body was in a state of paralysis, but the narrowing of his eyes assured me that he was very much alive—alive, and slowly breaking.

"I'm not talking to you, Miss." Even though Jake addressed Mollie, his eyes never wavered from me—not for a second. They held my gaze, burning into me in search for answers to his pending questions; it seemed as though it would take a while, however. "I'm here for Amandine."

"Well, Amandine doesn't want you here." Answered Mollie, to which she received a tick of the jaw in Jake, the clutching of his knuckles and his gaze sliding toward her. Mollie's stance faltered instantly.

"I'm sure," Jake began, words clipped with aggravation. He was forcibly straining himself, the veins in his neck appearing under his blood-splattered skin, "that Amandine can talk for herself."

"I can." And although I wanted to hold authority in my tone, it came out raspy and faint—scratching the walls of my throat and clawing at the skin that concealed the flesh beneath it. My hands quivered with fear, so much so that I hid them beneath the layers of my uniform, my breathing ragged and uneasy. I couldn't face him. Not today. "But I do not want to speak to you." And with those words of venom, my throat burned—fire clawed at my skin and tears soaked the contours of my face.

But I would not face him.

I couldn't.

I wouldn't allow myself to—not when I could barely compose myself in a calm manner. Not when I was hysterical, and him broken. And even though my eyes did not hold his gaze—even if my eyes rested upon the floor, watching the uneasy shifting of his boots along the floor—I could see him so clearly: betrayed, bewildered and broken. I could see his tears, feel their soft, wet texture against my skin—or perhaps they were the tears of my own, which had been concealed beneath layers of bravery for many years. I could see the animosity that reeked from him, the clicking of his fingers as his fist tightened—his breathing uneasy and eerie. I could feel everything, see everything.

But I would not look up.

I would not face him.

So I moved.

I manoeuvred past them all—past the taunting wind that played games with my skirts, past the outstretched hands of a friend and stranger and past the electricity from Jake that shocked me to my place: the touching of our hands, swift and quick and promising to be permanent; permanent, in an impermanent world. And so I open the door and let the breeze sweep my feet, let it guide me past the disapproving glares of my superiors and the judgment that laced so many faces: past the shouting of Mollie and the unease of George's silent words. I ran past it all—not because I craved a chase, but because I wanted an escape.

More than anything.

And it was just like Jake in my dream.

I wanted to escape.

And whilst I was lost in my trance—in the wind, the leaves and the façade that was the summer warmth—he was there. His warmth engulfed me unwontedly—I, then more than ever, wanted to feel the cold, to wrap myself in its skin and let it stop my heart from loving, my eyes for caring and my mind for wanting. Let the cold caress the fair hairs that grazed my skin—to suppress that life that thrived through my being and conceal it with finality, but it couldn't happen; his warmth was overbearing, and my heart longed for it.

My heart, but not my mind.

It was a battle, seemingly: my door closing once I'd reached my chambers verses the relentless persistence of Jake, fist banging against the other side. It was a battle of the heart and mind, or wanting and suppressing, or opinions and judgment. It was battle and a dance and an art piece of love; of hurt and confusion and uncertainty. It was everything—he was everything.

And that's what I hated most about it.

About him.

And perhaps that was why I was reluctant to see his face, to see the solemn features contort into something of a devilish concoction of disgust and betrayal and perplexity. I did not wish to explain to him my reasons, I did not wish to rest my eyes open him no more. I would ignore my heart—tear it, rip it, let the word be rid of it. I would not let it last longer—not when it caused tears to fall down my being, to let my skin become cloaked in velvet tears and clean my gowns of a dirtied beige. And with this promise came some sadness and irony: a deep irony, one which made me let the sounds of Jake's pleas become mute, and let the sound of my heart weeping silence.

All this time, they'd gotten the title wrong: Jake had a heart.

I had not.