He sets his phone aside, but his jaw is tight. “You don’t want that.”
“Yes,” I whisper. “I do.”
A beat. A breath.
Then, quietly:
“I’m thinking that everyone out there sees me as your… accessory. Your stray. Your project.” His gaze drops to his hands. “And I hate how much of my old life that echoes. Being owned. Being displayed. Beingless.”
My lungs go tight. “Draco…”
“I know you don’t see me that way.” His voice roughens. “But the world does. And part of me… a part of me hears them and thinks—maybe they’re not wrong. Maybe I became yours the moment you decided I mattered.”
I stand so fast the bed squeaks. “You didn’t become mine,” I say, too fiercely. “You chose me.”
“Did I?” His eyes finally meet mine. “Or did I do what I’ve always done—cling to the first person who didn’t treat me like a tool? How do I know this isn’t old wiring? Survival, not love?”
The words land hard—low, precise, and impossible to defend against.
I make myself breathe. “Do you really think that’s all we are?”
“No,” he says instantly. Angrily. “But fear doesn’t care about truth. Fear cares about patterns.”
My throat burns. “And what pattern amIrepeating, Draco? What wound do you think I’m acting out?”
He doesn’t answer.
He doesn’t have to.
I hear it anyway.
“You think I needed you so I could rebel, break free,” I say hollowly. “You think I walked away from my parents to prove something.”
“That’s not—”
“Itis,” I whisper. “And the worst part? I’ve worried about that too. Not because of you. Because they raised me in a way that made every choice feel predetermined.”
His shoulders slump like he’s in pain.
“Charity…”
“I’m scared too,” I say, voice trembling now. “I’m scared that I don’t know how to be someone who gets chosen. I’m scared that I’ll become Grace’s ghost again. And yes—I’m scared that you’ll look at me one day and think I’m too soft or too rich or too sheltered or too fragile or too… too everything you’re not.”
The words spill out too loud, too raw. “I’m terrified I’ll lose you.”
He stands slowly, as if approaching a wild animal.
“Why?” he asks. Not harsh. Just honest. “Why would you lose me?”
“Because you survived Rome, first as an orphan on the streets, then as a gladiator slave, and then two thousand years suspended in ice,” I say. “And I survived… politeness. Presentation. Expectations. I’m afraid you’ll wake up and realize I’m made of silk while you’re made of steel.”
He flinches like I slapped him.
“Silk,” he says, voice low, “can garrote a man as easily as steel.”
I make a choking sound that’s half laugh, half sob.
He steps closer, but we’re still feet apart—like there’s an invisible line neither of us knows how to cross.
