Slow.
Deliberate.
Every motion controlled like it could shatter the world if he let it slip.
He steps away from the counter.
Then again.
Not threatening.
Not gentle.
Resolved.
“Pia,” he says, my name a wire pulled tight between us. “Look at me.”
“I am,” I whisper.
“No,” he murmurs. “Really look.”
Something fractures open in my chest.
I do.
Not the scars.
Not the violence.
Not the shape his father tried to carve out of him.
I see the man underneath.
The boy who learned too early how disposable love is.
The priest who prayed until silence nearly murdered him.
The son molded into a weapon before he ever chose a faith.
The man standing here bloodied and breathing—and still refusing to let me sink alone.
“That’s who you fell for,” he says softly.
Not a question.
A verdict.
And he’s right.
“I didn’t fall in love with your name,” I whisper. “Or your bloodline. Or your power.”
I move closer without realizing it.
“I fell in love with
the man who never asked me to break myself smaller just to fit his world.”
My nails dig into the rosary.
