"Left when I was a baby. I don't remember him. Mom said he couldn't handle the responsibility." I twist the gold cross pendant. "It's always been just us."
"That's why you became a teacher."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "Part of it. I wanted to give kids what I never had—stability, attention, someone who shows up." I look out the window. "Mom worked three jobs to keep us afloat. She was never home. Always tired when she was. I raised myself mostly."
"That must have been lonely."
"It was. But I understood. She was doing her best." I turn back to him. "That's why her treatment matters so much. Why I'll do anything—even this—to keep her alive. She sacrificed everything for me. It's my turn."
Dante is quiet for a long moment. "You project that onto your students."
"What?"
"Your trauma. Your experience of being alone, of needing more attention than you got. That's why your job means so much to you. It's not just about teaching—it's about giving them what you needed."
The accuracy of it steals my breath.
"I..." I don't know what to say. "Yes. I guess I do."
"There's nothing wrong with that." His voice is surprisingly gentle. "Using your pain to help others? That's admirable. Most people just let it make them bitter."
"Like you?"
"Like me," he agrees. "I let my trauma turn me into this." He gestures to himself. "Someone who controls everything because I couldn't control what mattered most."
"Your mother."
"My mother," he confirms. "My turn for a question. Why teaching specifically? Why not social work or therapy?"
"Because kids that age still have hope. Still believe adults can be trusted, can help them." I smile slightly. "Once they hit middle school, that innocence is gone. But second-graders? They still think teachers can fix anything."
"Can you?"
"No. But I try." I study his face. "My turn. What do you actually want out of life? Besides avoiding that Caterina woman and maintaining your position?"
"That's a loaded question."
"You said anything."
He considers this. "Peace. Control. A life where I'm not constantly putting out fires or managing crises." He pauses. "And maybe someone who doesn't look at me like I'm a monster."
"I look at you like you're a monster."
"Sometimes. But not always." His hand finds my knee. "Sometimes you look at me like you're trying to figure out if I'm human."
"Are you?"
"I'm not sure anymore." His thumb traces circles on my knee, and I'm very aware of how little fabric is between his hand and my skin. "Your turn."
"Why do you touch me so much?" The question comes out before I can stop it. "You said you wouldn't make me sleep with you, but you're always touching—my back, my thigh, my face. Why?"
"Because I can't help it." The honesty in his voice surprises me. "Because every instinct I have says you're mine and I need to touch what's mine. Because when I'm near you, not touching feels wrong."
Heat floods through me. "That's..."
"Possessive? Twisted?" He leans closer. "I know. But you asked for honesty."
"My turn again," I say quickly, trying to regain footing. "You’ll ask me two questions after that. What do you think about when you look at me?"
