The shirt comes off in one hard pull, landing in a heap on the tile. My jeans follow. I crank the water as hot as it will go, step under it, and let it scald. Red swirls down the drain in thin, lazy streams. The scent of iron rises in thesteam, sharp enough to taste. I scrub hard until my skin is raw, until the bruises from Don Aurelio’s little session start to throb again. Doesn’t matter. I want it all gone—blood, smoke, the stink of death—before I go back down there.
Before I stand in front of her again.
She’s had enough monsters. She doesn’t need to see one in her own house.
By the time the water runs clear, my muscles have loosened, but the exhaustion has only sunk deeper. I towel off, pull on clean clothes—black sweats, a dark Henley—and rake my fingers through my damp hair. I still look tired, still look like I’ve been through hell, but at least I don’t reek of it anymore, and most of my bruises are covered.
The house is quiet as I head back downstairs. I pass the kitchen—empty now, save for a couple of plates in the sink—then follow the faint scent of coffee into the family room.
She’s there.
Curled up in the corner of the sofa, knees tucked in, a mug cradled between her hands. Her gaze is locked on the unlit fireplace, as if it might come to life if she stares long enough. The soft lamplight catches the dark strands of her hair, casting shadows against her cheek.
She doesn’t notice me at first.
For a second, I just stand there, taking her in, here, in our house, wrapped in a sweater I bought for her, obviously feeling safe enough to sit barefoot on my couch.
Safe, but not at ease.
Her shoulders are still tense, like she’s ready to spring up if the air shifts wrong.
I step forward, slow enough not to startle her. "Sophia."
Her head turns, her eyes flick over me. They linger for a moment on my clean shirt, my damp hair, then come back to meet mine. She says nothing, just takes another sip of coffee, and I notice her fingers tightening around the mug.
Carefully, I lower myself onto the sofa, leaving space between us. "Sophia," I say again, softer this time.
Her eyes lift to mine, and what’s in them nearly knocks the wind out of me: anguish, so deep and unhealed it cracks my heart.
"Why now?" she asks, and the hurt in her voice cuts deeper than any blade. "All those years… why not then?"
The question hits like a blow to the chest. I can feel it cracking something open inside me, something I’ve kept bolted shut. I stand, unable to sit there with that look on her face, and take a slow step toward her. She flinches, just a little, but enough that it kills me.
I drop to my knees in front of her, keeping my movements deliberately measured to not startle or scare her.Gently, I wrap my hands around the mug, easing it from her grip and setting it on the coffee table, before taking her hands in mine. Her fingers are cold, small against my palms, and I hold them like they’re the most fragile thing in the world.
"I swear to you, Sophia," I say, hearing the crack in my voice, thick with everything I can’t undo. "I didn’t know. If I had—" My throat works, the words catch. "If I had, I would’ve burned that house to the ground to get you out."
Her lips tremble, and for a moment she doesn’t look at me; she looks past me, maybe at all the years between then and now, all the nights no one came.
"I didn’t know," I repeat, softer this time, because I need her to believe it. I need her to see that whatever else I’ve done, whatever blood is on my hands, this… leaving her there… it was never a choice.
My thumbs brush over her knuckles, slow, like maybe I can smooth away some of what’s been done to her.
"Not then," I say. "But now… now, I’ll never let anyone hurt you again. And I will make him pay. I swear, I'll make that bastard pay for everything he's done to you."
A single tear slides down her cheek. Just one. But it’s enough to break me into a thousand jagged pieces.
"It’s not going to change anything," she whispers, her voice so quiet I almost miss it.
The words cut deeper thanany knife.
She lifts her gaze again, and there’s a flicker of steel there, small, faint, but it’s there. "What do you want from me?"
I can’t tell her the truth. Not yet. That I’ve loved her for longer than I've been able to admit even to myself. That she’s been under my skin ever since that kiss. She wouldn’t believe me. Or worse, she would, and it would crush her under the weight of it.
So I swallow it down, every raw, reckless thing I want to say, and give her the only piece she can carry right now. "I want to keep you safe." My voice feels too tight, too full. "That’s it. No deals. No strings. I just… I want you to be safe here. To sleep without looking over your shoulder. To eat what you want. To breathe without feeling like you have to ask permission."
Her hands are still in mine, and I tighten my hold, not enough to trap her, just enough so she knows I won’t let go unless she asks.
