I sit beside him on the edge of the tub. Our shoulders touch. The contact is solid. Real.
"You aren't a monster, Killian."
He lets out a harsh, dismissive breath. A sound of self-loathing.
"I'm not finished," I say. My voice is steady. "You are not a monster. A monster doesn't vomit after a wedding night because he feels guilty. A monster doesn't try to apologize. A monster doesn't step in front of six guns to protect someone he barely knows."
He stares at the floor.
"You're a shield," I say.
He looks at me.
"Shields get dented," I say. "They get scarred. They get battered so the things behind them don't have to. Your father put you in front of every threat, and you held the line. That doesn't make you a monster. It makes you a casualty."
His breathing hitches. A crack in the armor.
"You protected Rory when he was nine," I say. "You protected him by taking this marriage. You protected me at Murphy's. Youprotected me tonight. The thing you did—the thing you hate yourself for—saved my life."
I reach out. I take his hand again. I lace our fingers together.
"I am asking you to hold both truths," I say. "You are capable of great violence. And you are capable of great love. One does not cancel the other."
He looks at me. The green eyes are searching, desperate. He looks like a man who has been drowning for years, and someone just threw him a line.
I lift his hand. I press my lips to his knuckles. To the scar. To the gold wedding band that he hasn't taken off.
"Alessandro," he breathes.
His forehead drops against my temple. The weight of it is heavy. Surrendered.
We sit there. On the edge of a paint-stained bathtub in a studio that smells of oil and chemicals.
He leans into me. I wrap my arm around his shoulders. I hold him. I feel the tension leaving his frame, muscle by muscle, until he is leaning his full weight against me.
The studio door opens.
We both freeze.
Footsteps. Light. Quick.
"Kill? Alessandro?"
Rory.
Killian lifts his head. He wipes his face with his sleeve. The mask slides back into place—thinner now, cracked, but functional. The Reaper is back, but the man is still visible underneath.
"In here," he calls. His voice is steady.
We stand up. I check him one last time. He nods.
We walk out into the studio.
Rory is at the drafting table. He has his laptop open, cables running to Hargrove’s phone. He looks pale, wire-drawn tension in his shoulders. But when he sees us—Killian clean, bandaged; me standing close—he relaxes slightly.
He sees the way we are standing. The lack of distance. The way my shoulder brushes Killian’s.
He nods. Once. Acknowledging the shift.
