His hand drops from my cheek, but the ghost of his touch lingers along my skin.
And for the first time tonight…I’m the one who has to look away.
Because if I meet his eyes again, I might tell him everything.
And I can’t.Not yet.Not until I know whether he’ll save me — or damn me.
The Photograph and the Flame
Santino leaves only when I force him to.
“I need to rest,” I tell him—though rest is the last thing my body understands right now. My pulse is still sprinting, my skinstill remembers the heat of violence, the scrape of his knuckles, the sound of him choking a man to death inches from me.
He stands in the doorway as if he doesn’t trust this room to hold me without him in it. One hand on the frame. Jaw tight. Blood dried along his collar like a stain only I can see.
“Lock the door,” he murmurs as he locks the window.
It isn’t a command.
It’s a plea.
Something in my chest stutters. I nod, even though it feels like pushing a stone uphill. “Go, Santino.”
For a second, I think he’ll refuse. I think he’ll stay, hover, burn himself alive for me in the name of protection. But he only nods once—sharp, reluctant—and steps back. The door closes with a soft click.
Silence rushes in behind it.
I stand there a moment, staring at the wood, hand hovering over the lock as though the simple motion might break something. My fingers move at last. I turn it. It snicks into place.
Safe, he’d say.
He’s wrong.
I’m the danger in this room.
My legs give out the second I turn away. I slide down the wall and hit the floor beside the bed, palms stinging as they catch my weight. The adrenaline drains out of me fast, leaving a hollow ache behind my ribs.
For a moment, I let my head fall back against the wall and close my eyes.
His voice echoes anyway.
You’re safe with me.You live like someone who expects to run.Don’t make me protect you blindly.
A humorless breath escapes me—too light to be a laugh, too bitter to be anything else.
Too late.
I lean forward and reach under the bed, fingers searching for the familiar notch in the wood. The box drags out with a soft scrape. Old. Plain. Forgettable. Exactly what I needed it to be.
I flip the latches open with my thumb.
Three things wait inside.
A worn handkerchief, edges frayed from being clutched in a little girl’s fist.A folded piece of paper with a child’s drawing—crooked figures, a house, a sun drawn too big.And the photograph.
My breath sticks in my throat.
I lift the photo carefully; the paper is soft and pliant with age. My father’s smile is still there—young, tired, warm. With his arm around my smaller frame, pulling me close. My gap-toothed grin. My crooked pigtails.
