"Santino—" My voice breaks. "I can't—I'm going to—"
"Yes." His mouth is at my ear now, his breath hot against my skin. "Yes. Let go."
"But we're—someone might—"
"Let go, Thea." His thumb presses harder, circles faster, and his voice drops to something commanding. "Let go for me."
And I do.
Something inside me breaks apart—shatters into a thousand pieces—and I bury my face in his shoulder to muffle the sound. My whole body goes taut for a heartbeat, two, and then I'm falling, waves of sensation rolling through me that I've never felt before, while Santino’s hand doesn’t stop moving, drawing it out until I'm trembling and boneless and completely wrecked against the brick wall.
When I can finally breathe again, when the world stops spinning and I remember how my legs are supposed to work, I realize he's kissing my temple. Soft. Gentle. Nothing like the desperation from before.
"You are not," he says quietly against my hair, "a phase."
I can't speak. Can only stand there with his hand still under my shirt, his body still pressed against mine, trying to remember how to function as a human being.
Slowly—so slowly—he withdraws his hand. Smooths down my shirt with careful fingers. Helps me straighten my coat, hismovements gentle and deliberate, like I'm something fragile he doesn't want to break.
His hand cups my face, tilting it up so I have to look at him.
His expression—
There's no mask. No professional distance. Just him. Raw and open and looking at me like I'm the answer to a question he's been asking his whole life.
"Do you understand now?" he asks.
I nod. Still can't quite find words yet. My voice feels like it's been scraped raw.
"Say it."
"I'm not—" My voice is hoarse, wrecked. "I'm not a phase."
"And?"
"And you—" I stop. Try again. "I don't know what this is."
"Neither do I." His thumb brushes my cheek, catching a snowflake. "But I know I want to find out. I know I have twelve days left to decide, and you will be part of that decision." His forehead rests against mine. "I know that watching you laugh with him today made me jealous. Murderously so.”
I don’t know what to say. I don’t think it’s right that a part of me is relieved and glad that I made him jealous.
He steps back, and I immediately miss the warmth of him. The cold air rushes in to fill all the spaces where he was. "I will walk you home now."
"You don't have to—"
"I am walking you home, Thea." Not a question. Not a request. Just a fact.
We walk the rest of the way in silence. But this silence is different. Charged. Electric. Every few steps, his hand brushes mine, and I wonder if he's counting too. Counting the moments
until he does it again.
We reach my building. Fourteen steps from the sidewalk to the door.
I count them anyway. Can't help it.
He notices. "You are counting."
"I always count."
