I grab the cup off the coffee table first and rush it into the kitchen. The sink makes me wince—too visible, too honest—so I start shoving dishes into the dishwasher without thinking, loading them wrong, not caring. Plate. Mug.Fork. Another mug. I rinse nothing. I just need them out of sight.
I snag the blanket from the couch and shake it out once, hard, then fold it in a rough rectangle and toss it neatly over the arm like I meant it to be there.
I scoop the socks and towel off the floor and run to my room to shove them in the hamper without ceremony.
The air feels stale suddenly, and I crack a window open. Cool air rushes in and raises goosebumps on my arms.
Candles.
I don’t know why that’s my next thought, but it is.
I grab the lighter from the kitchen drawer and light the two candles on the shelf in the living area, then one on the kitchen island.
I wipe the counter with a paper towel, shove the stray mail into a drawer, straighten the pillows on the couch with a sharp, angry motion.
My heart is hammering.
My hands are moving faster than my brain.
I don’t have time.
I don’t have time to shower.
I don’thave time to change.
I don’t have time to become the version of myself that’s composed and untouchable and safe.
The knock comes too soon, a solid rap at the door that makes my stomach drop.
I freeze.
Then, at the last second, I reach up, hook a finger under the elastic in my hair, and pull it free. My hair tumbles down around my shoulders in a rush. I shake it out once, quick and messy, like that’s going to make me look less like I just ran on a treadmill.
I step toward the door and pause with my fingers on the door handle, forcing myself to take in one slow breath.
In through my nose. Out through my mouth.
My pulse is still sprinting, but I refuse to open the door looking like I’m panicking. I refuse to give him that.
I turn the handle and pull it open.
Antonio is standing in the hallway, and my heart backs up into my lungs.
He’s in a dark coat that fits him so well, I think it was literally made for him. His hair is neat. His jaw is clean-shaven. His eyes lift to mine and lock on, and something in my chest tightens hard enough to hurt.
For a second, my brain offers me useless flashes—his mouth on mine, his hands on my body, the heat of him against me—and I hate myself for it.
Iforce my face into something neutral.
“Antonio,” I say, like it’s a greeting and not a complication.
“Elsa,” he answers. His voice is low, serious. Not charming. Not teasing.
I blink once, slowly, because I’m not sure what version of him I’m looking at.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, and the words come out flatter than I intend. Not welcoming. Not hostile. A line drawn in sand.
“I need to talk to you,” he says.
