This woman does not sound penitent.
She sounds entertained.
“It matters,” I say, sharper than I intend. “That’s how this works.”
“Oh,” she murmurs, “I thought this worked however God wanted. Not you.”
It hits like a slap—but she doesn’t know me. She can’t. That’s the point of this box. Of anonymity. Of the distance.
So why does it feel like she just slid a knife between two ribs I hadn’t seen were exposed?
Something shifts under my skin.
Desire.
Curiosity.
A warning.
My body moves without my mind's consent. I feel my heart race. It feels like my jaw is locking. I’m hyper-aware of every inch of space between us, of how thin the wood is, of how easy it would be to open this door and see her.
I crushed that thought.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
Another pause. I can almost hear her smile.
“I don’t think I want to tell you,” she says.
“That’s not how this works,” I repeat, the edge returning to my voice.
“Isn’t it?”
A beat of silence. Then—
She laughs.
Not loud. Not unhinged.
A small, intimate sound, like we’re sharing a secret no one else gets.
It’s wrong.
So fucking wrong in this place, in this booth, with the storm raging outside and Giovanni’s ghost pressing against the walls.
But the sound curls through the screen and into me anyway—thin, sinuous, invasive as smoke.
And I hate the way a part of me wants more.
Santino’s Instinct: Obsession, Not Curiosity
Her laugh still hangs in the air when silence slips back in—soft, humming, charged like the moment before lightning hits.
I close my eyes, jaw clenched so hard it pulses. I’m furious at myself—for the way my pulse reacts to her, for how one quiet, absolutely inappropriate sound still feels like it’s lingering on my tongue.
I shouldn’t feel anything.
Not here.
