"Well…would that have helped you?!" he asks. I open my mouth, and... nothing comes out. "I'm not saying I'm okay with the things you've done. But I'm not scared of you. If I thought you were gonna hurt me, I wouldn't be in your bed. Trust me on this one."
"So no snitch?"
He rolls his eyes and does the zipped-mouth gesture again, more dramatic this time. "Cross my heart, shut my mouth, be annoying about it forever," he says. "If I ever talk, it'll be to tell you to stop getting yourself killed."
"You're actually not scared?"
He shrugs a little. "Not ofyou. Just scared of the world that made you feel like this was the only way."
That hits me harder than I expect. He leans against me, his shoulder warm on mine. "Please don't get caught though," he adds, smiling.
"I won't."
"Good. Because I just had sex with a guy with a criminal record and a cat, and I'm not doing this twice."
I laugh, leaning my head against his. "You're insane."
"You're the one with the crime box, punk." We sit like that for a while.
Lulu crawls back into Rava's lap. And even though the box is still open, nothing feels heavy anymore. Not when I know I'm not hiding this side of me anymore.
He asked me why I don't just throw it all away. And I couldn't answer him right.
Because the truth? The truth is I'm fucking terrified.
Not of jail. Not of the cops. Not even of getting caught. I'm terrified because for the first time in my life, I think I don't want to be that guy anymore.
The one who needed this box. Who kept it like a medal, proof that I was sharp enough, fast enough, dangerous enough to survive on my own.
But I look at him, and suddenly none of that feels like power anymore. It feels like armor that's rotting inside me.
I don't need to be that guy around him.
I don't need to perform. I don't need to flash my middle fingers or crack my jaw or show off like some fucking cartoon of a man.
He's the first person who's ever looked at me and seenme. Not just the biceps, not the tattoos, not the Ducati.
Me.
And it's fucking unbearable. Because I've built this whole world around the idea that no one ever would. That I was too much, too selfish, too burnt out to ever be someone anyone could stay for. But he's still here. Even after this. And he's not asking me to prove anything.
He's not scaredofme. He's scaredforme.
And that makes me love him and hurt myself even more. Because no one ever stayed. They only ever show up for a ride, a thrill, a story. They like the version of me they can brag about.
Touch him, but don't get too close. He'll bite. That’s always the game. But Rava wants to understand me. And now I'm holding everything I've ever done wrong in a rusted metal box, and I don't even want it anymore. I don't want the thrill.
I don't want the weight. I don't want to be the guy with a lockpick smile and no one to come home to. I just want him. His voice. His hand on mine when I'm shaking. His eyes when he looks at me like I'm not just a walking trash.
Like I'm worth something and maybe, just maybe, I could be good. I deserve to be treated well. And I hate how much I want that. But at the same time, I'm glad that he is leaving. Because I don't know how to be that guy.
Because what if I try and fail? What if he wakes up one day and realizes he made a mistake? What if I lose him and there's nothing left of me to go back to?
One hour later
He's slipping his shirt on. I should probably be helping him gather his things, but I just...stand there. He looks up at me as he stuffs his phone into his pocket.
"You're staring."
