“For me,” he corrects. Then softer: “For us.”
Something opens in my chest and doesn’t close again.
I push myself up onto one elbow and look at him. Lamp-light smooths the hard lines out of his face. Even his scars look kinder here.
“I love you,” I say.
The words slip out without permission.
Before fear can touch them.
Before I can wrap them in barbed wire and bargain them back.
He freezes.
Like the world hit pause.
His chest stills under my palm. Even the house seems to hold its breath.
Regret flares briefly. Then I get angry at myself for thinking that.
I survived tunnels. I survived drowning. Men who liked their prayers screamed.
I can survive three words.
His face looks undone.
Like I handed him something he never believed he could own.
“Say it again,” he breathes.
My throat burns.
“I love you,” I say again. “And not because you saved me. Because even if you hadn’t, I would’ve fallen for the stubborn, dangerous ex-priest who wouldn’t let me drown in my own fucking lies.”
Something wild ignites behind his eyes.
He sits up sharply, bringing me with him, cupping my face like I’ll vanish if he lets go.
“Pia,” he says, my name cracking in half.
Then—
“I love you too.”
It hits harder than any weapon I’ve ever taken to the body.
“I’ve loved you since you lied to me in confession,” he adds with a breathless laugh. “I knew you were full of shit, and I wanted you anyway. Your mouth. Your fire. Your refusal to bow.”
A ruined sound breaks out of me.
Tears follow.
“I was a disaster.”
“You were mine.”
He kisses me like it’s not optional. Slow. Devastating. No fear. No delay.
