My throat tightens.
"I told you to get out," I remind her hoarsely.
"I know."
"And you didn't."
She shakes her head once. "No. I didn't."
I close my eyes for a second, clenching my jaw, the weight of it all crashes down at once, the car, the lies, the years, the way she still stands here instead of running. When I open them again, she's close enough that I can feel her warmth.
"I'm not ashamed of what they did to me," I reveal slowly. "I'm angry that you saw it before I was ready."
She nods. "Fair."
I swallow. "But don't ever mistake my scars for weakness."
Her gaze lifts, fierce now. Unafraid. "Like there is a chance in hell for that with you."
Something inside me gives. Not breaks.Gives.
I reach out—not to pull her close, not to claim—but to rest my hand against her cheek, just once, grounding myself in the fact that she's real. That she's here. That she didn't look away.
"I don't let anyone see me," I disclose quietly.
"I know."
"I'm not good at this," I add. "At being… seen."
She leans into my touch, just a fraction. "Then we'll be bad at it together."
Dark. Dangerous. Uncertain.
Underneath the soft touches, the words, the glances, something vast and dangerous simmers, an undercurrent of desire powerful enough to redraw the world if we ever stop holding it back. It's like the very air around us is filled with electricity. Heavy, loaded.
"Mummy? Massimo? I'm hungry." Amauri calls through the closed door from the living room. Reality snaps back into place like a rubber band.
We order food from the kitchen. Plates covered with silver domes arrive, and steam escapes when they're opened. Plates are passed around. The TV comes on, and Amauri insists onToy Story. He wedges himself firmly between us on the couch, as if this is the most natural arrangement in the world, which somehow… it is.
I watch the screen, but I'm only half there. I'm acutely aware of Jenna beside me, the warmth of her thigh, the brush of her arm when she reaches for her drink. Amauri's head eventually tips against my side, heavy, trusting. Jenna's hand smooths over his hair absentmindedly, the gesture automatic and intimate.
I've commanded rooms full of armed men. This feels harder.
When Amauri finally falls asleep, I don't move right away. I let the moment exist. Let myself memorize the weight of him, the quiet, the fragile peace I don't trust yet but desperately want to. After a little while, I lift him carefully and carry him down thehall. Jenna follows without a word. I lay him in the guest bed, pull the covers up, and tuck him in the way he clearly expects. He sighs softly in his sleep. This—this—is how it was always supposed to be. And soon he'll have the best bedroom any little boy could want.
I turn, and Jenna is standing in the doorway, watching us like she's afraid the moment might vanish if she blinks. She takes one step inside. I close the distance in two.
"Oh no," I murmur, low and certain. "We're not done."
Her breath catches. She backs up on instinct, not fear, something else. Something that recognizes where this is going and doesn't entirely want to stop it. I keep moving forward, she keeps moving back, that way I guide her gently, inexorably, out of the room. Not rough. Not rushed. Just inevitable. Into my bedroom.
"Massimo," she protests softly as we go, and my name frays at the edges. I shake my head once, never breaking eye contact. Not tonight. Tonight isn't about explanations or apologies or the past. Tonight is about gravity finally being allowed to work.
She lets me close the door behind her and guide her to the edge of the bed. Her eyes catch the city glow bleeding through the blinds, the pools of shadow on the navy sheets, the black suit jacket forgotten from earlier when I tossed it to the floor, carelessly, making space for her. She sits, legs close together, hands braced behind her on the mattress, her face lifted like she's about to take a punch and has decided to suffer it beautifully. That's the bravest part of her, always choosing pain over cowardice, always daring me to do my worst.
I kneel in front of her, bring my face level with her knees, and part them with slow, deliberate pressure. She lets me, doesn't flinch. I palm her calves, fingertips skating the tendon and soft skin, push her skirt up inch by inch until the backs of my handsare flush with the heat of her thighs. She watches every move, wild-eyed and silent, mouth parted.
"Don't look away," I tell her, and she doesn't. Not once. Not even when I pull her in closer, and the tips of my fingers find bare skin beneath the lace, so wet it makes me want to destroy her.
