“You should,” I whisper.
The truth comes out like a dare.
If he hates me, I know how to live with that. I grew up fluent in accusation. In being the thing people never stayed for. In the look that says you’re already guilty before you ever speak.
“But I won’t,” he says.
It isn’t loud.
It isn’t a vow the world will honor.
It’s just real.
“You came to steal. Fine,” he continues. “You lied. Fine. You wanted revenge. Fine.” His thumbs trace my jaw, grounding, unyielding. “You think any of that is worse than what my family’s already done? Than what I’ve done?”
My throat burns.
I don’t answer.
I don’t know how.
His eyes darken—but not with fury. With certainty.
“You saved my life,” he says. “You warned me when you didn’t have to. You put your body between me and a fuckingbullet. You let me see you. And you told me the truth when you could’ve used me and disappeared.”
He rests his forehead against mine.
Warm.
Solid.
Impossible.
“I forgive you, Pia,” he murmurs. “Instantly. Completely. I’m not leaving.”
Relief hits like an ocean.
It steals my breath.
My knees weaken.
My hand flies to his chest because I need to feel his heart or I’m going to shatter at the edges.
He doesn’t step back.
He leans in.
And I breathe him like oxygen.
I’m right there—right at the edge of saying his name like a prayer that might stitch something in me back together—
When his voice changes.
Not louder.
Lower.
“There’s something else.”
