“You make it sound easy.”
“It’s not.” Then, quieter, “But it’s real.”
The word sinks into me.
Real.
Not borrowed.Not temporary.Not paid for in pain.
My hand slips from the railing and curls into his shirt.
I don’t pull him in.
I don’t have to.
He steps into me anyway, chest brushing mine, one hand braced beside my hip—not trapping me.
Claiming space with me inside it.
And for the first time—
I let myself believe.
This might actually be my life.
Not the tunnels.Not the blood.Not the running.
This.
Cold air.Warm skin.
A house in the pines and a man who looks at me like I’m not broken.
Just survived.
It feels like standing on the edge of a cliff with the wind at my back.
Terrifying.
And for the first time in my life—
I think I might finally be ready to jump.
Santino’s Confession
Santino steps closer.
Not like a man asking permission.
Like a man walking straight into a truth he’s held in his mouth so long it hollowed him out from the inside.
“I’ve been thinking,” he says.
His voice is low, steady—but I hear the fault line beneath it. The old fracture cracking wider so something real can finally breathe.
“That sounds dangerous,” I say lightly. Because fear taught me early — smile first, bleed later.
He doesn’t smile.
