That afternoon, we finally make it to the shower. He washes my hair the way he did that first time, fingers gentle against my scalp, but this time I’m not weak from starvation. This time I can turn around and drop to my knees and take him in my mouth while hot water pounds our backs.
He comes growling my name. Then he picks me up, pins me against the tile, and returns the favor until I’m shaking and crying out and forgetting my own.
Back in bed, damp and sated, I curl into his side.
“I’ve never had this,” I say quietly.
“Had what?”
“This.” I gesture vaguely at the tangled sheets, the destroyed pillows, the room that smells like sex and us. “Someone who wants to talk as much as they want to fuck.”
His arm tightens around me. “Your previous relationships?—”
“Were either physical or practical. Sometimes both.” I map the ink of his tattoo, finally asking: “What does this mean?”
“Family crest.” His voice is neutral. “My father had it put on me when I was sixteen.”
“Had it put on you?”
“I didn’t have a choice.” A beat. “I rarely did, when it came to Cicero.”
The name drops between us like a stone into still water. Ripples spreading outward, threatening to disturb the peace we’ve built.
“He’s still out there,” I say.
“Yes.”
“This can’t last forever. This—” I wave at the bed. “This bubble.”
“I know.” His hand finds mine. Laces our fingers together. “But not yet. Give me a little longer.”
Give us a little longer.
I should push. Should demand a plan, a timeline, something concrete. But his body is warm against mine, and outside the window the stars are scattered like spilled salt across the dark sky, and I’m so tired of fighting.
“Okay,” I whisper. “A little longer.”
His phone buzzes somewhere in the room. He ignores it.
I pretend not to notice.
Morning comes again.The second, maybe. Time has lost meaning.
I’m draped across Elio’s chest, half-asleep, when the knock comes.
Sharp and urgent. Not the polite tap of staff delivering food.
My stomach drops before my brain catches up. Elio’s body goes rigid beneath me. Relaxed one second, coiled for violence the next.
“Stay here.” He’s already moving, sliding out from under me, reaching for the gray sweatpants he discarded sometime yesterday.
I watch him dress. The way the fabric hangs low on his hips, revealing the V of muscle that disappears beneath thewaistband. Even now, after everything, my body responds to the sight of him.
He crosses to the door. Opens it enough to speak to whoever’s on the other side.
I can’t hear the words. Just the low rumble of voices, the tension in the guard’s posture, the way Elio’s shoulders tighten with every syllable.
“No.” His voice is flat. “I’m not leaving.”
