A sound from his side of the bed. Not quite a laugh. There and gone.
We lie in the dark, the distance charged with everything we’re not saying. His warmth radiating across the sheets. My heart beating too fast.
I press my face into the pillow. His scent is in the fabric. In the sheets. Everywhere.
I fall asleep before I can decide if that terrifies me or not.
For the first time in weeks, I don’t dream about being invisible.
8
DANTE
I haven’t slept more than two hours straight in five days.
The grit behind my eyes has become familiar. The heaviness in my limbs, the haze that smothers my thoughts by late afternoon. I’ve learned to function like this. Exhaustion keeps the dreams at bay. If I’m tired enough, I don’t dream at all.
A trade I’m willing to make.
The bedroom is empty when I drag myself out of bed. Her side of the mattress still holds the impression of her body, the sheets twisted where she slept. I flatten my palm against the hollow without meaning to.
Still warm.
I pull my hand back like I’ve been burned.
This is the problem. Every morning I wake reaching for what isn’t mine. Every night I lie beside her counting the distance between us in breaths, in heartbeats, in all the ways I’m failing to hold the line.
And every morning, my body betrays me.
I’m hard. Aching. The kind of need that has nothing to do with logic and everything to do with the scent of her still clinging to the sheets.
Cazzo.
I throw back the covers before I do something stupid.
The shower helps. Cold water shocking me back into my body, punishing the want out of my blood. I brace my hands against the tile and let the spray beat down on my shoulders.
She’s a contract. An arrangement. A means to an end.
My cock doesn’t care. My body remembers the curve of her hip under the blanket. The sounds she makes in her sleep.
I turn the water colder. Stay under until my teeth chatter and the ache retreats to manageable.
I dress with mechanical precision. Dark suit. White shirt. Sleeves rolled to the elbows because I’ve never been able to think with my cuffs buttoned.
In the mirror, I look like a man coming apart at the seams.
Dark circles. Jaw that won’t unclench. The composure I’ve spent years perfecting fraying at the edges.
Papa looked like this at the end.
I turn away before I can think about that too long.
I make my eggs. Overdone, the way Mama taught me. Standing at the stove, spatula in hand, I’m eight years old again. Her hand guiding mine. Her voice in my ear:
A little longer,tesoro. You’ll know they’re ready when they stop talking to you.
I eat alone at the kitchen island while the house wakes around me.
