She looks around the tiny room like she’s seeing it for the first time: the duffel bags half unpacked, the stack of takeout containers on the dresser, the second bed we didn’t bother using because neither of us wanted distance last night.
“How long can we stay?” she asks quietly. “Realistically.”
“As long as we need to,” I say. “I paid for the next two nights when we checked in.”
Her eyes widen. “Draco—”
“I’m not letting you carry this alone.” I tip my head toward the small desk where my folded cash sits—what’s left from weeks of street performances and staying careful. “You’re not my patron. You’re my partner. We split things when we can. Hotel included.”
Her eyes shine. “I used some of my sculpture money,” she admits. “From pieces that sold before all this. I wanted to feel like I was contributing something that was mine.”
“You are,” I say. “You always were.”
Her laugh comes out watery. “So we’re both broke on purpose.”
“Not broke,” I say. “Invested.”
“In what?”
“In us,” I answer, before I can overthink it.
Herbreath catches.
“By tonight,” she says softly, “we’ll have Lucky back. By tomorrow, there will be twice as many articles. Twice as much speculation.”
“Probably,” I agree.
“We can’t hide from it forever,” she whispers.
I study her — the woman who chose herself first and still somehow chose me anyway.
“No,” I breathe. “We can’t.”
Five o’clock ticks closer, promising us our dog back, one bright thing in a city full of shadows.
But love isn’t the bright thing right now. It’s the fragile thing — the one I don’t know how to protect.
Chapter Twenty
Charity
Five o’clock crawls toward us like time forgot how to move.
The hotel room feels too small for both of us, even though neither of us is talking. Draco sits in the chair by the window, scrolling through articles like he’s forcing himself to look at the blade before it strikes. I’m on the bed, knees pulled to my chest, refreshing my inbox even though nothing new is coming in.
The silence between us isn’t comfortable, and it isn’t angry.
It’sheavy.
Like everything we haven’t said is suspended between us, holding the air down.
I close my eyes. “Draco?”
He looks up immediately. “Yeah?”
I swallow, pulse skittering. I can’t believe I’m about to ask for something real. No polite phrasing. No careful avoidance. Just truth. We don’t do truth in my family—we do performance. We do silence.
“Tell me what you’re thinking. The real version.”
