We stare at each other, at an impasse. She looks like she wants to tell me—God, she looks like she's desperate to tell me—but something holds her back. Some fear or shame or guilt I can't see.
Finally, she looks away. "I should finish the soup. Xavier will be hungry when he wakes up."
It's a dismissal. A retreat. And it hurts more than I expected.
I help her down from the counter, hand her clothes back without comment. We dress in silence—awkward, painful silence that feels wrong after what we just shared.
"Val—"
"Please," she interrupts, not looking at me. "Just—please. I need to finish the soup."
I want to push. Want to demand answers. Want to break through whatever wall she's built and drag the truth out of her.
But I can see how close she is to breaking completely, and I don't want to be the one who destroys her.
So I nod. "Okay. I'll be in the living room if you need anything."
She doesn't respond, just turns back to the vegetables and picks up the knife with shaking hands.
I leave her there, alone with whatever demons she's carrying, and wonder how long either of us can keep doing this.
How long before the weight of her secrets crushes us both.
6
VALENTINA
Xavier's been doingphysical therapy for three days now, and I'm starting to think the therapist quit because she couldn't handle him.
"Again?" he growls from his position on the floor mat I've spread out in the bedroom. Sweat beads on his forehead, rolls down his temples despite the cool air circulating from the open window. His t-shirt is soaked through at the back. "We've done this ten times already."
"Twelve," I correct, kneeling beside him on the blue therapy mat, placing my palm flat against the sole of his right foot. The skin is cool, almost clammy. "And we're supposed to do fifteen. Doctor's orders."
"The doctor can go fuck himself," he snaps, but there's no real heat in it. Just exhaustion and pain.
"That's very mature," I observe dryly, applying gentle pressure to his foot. "Now push against my hand. Come on, I know you can feel something there. Rita said the sensation is coming back."
"I can feel pain," he grits out, every muscle in his leg trembling with effort. "Does that count?"
"Pain means nerves are firing," I reply, keeping my voice patient and steady even though we've had this exact conversation every single day for three days straight. "Pain is good. Pain means things are healing, reconnecting. Now push. Really push."
He tries. I can see it in the way his jaw clenches so hard I worry about his teeth, in the cords standing out in his neck, in the white-knuckle grip he has on the edge of the mat. His entire body is rigid with concentration and effort.
His foot moves—barely, maybe half an inch of pressure against my palm—but it moves.
"There," I say, unable to keep the excitement out of my voice. "Did you feel that? Xavier, that was more than yesterday."
"Felt like my entire leg was on fire," he grits out through clenched teeth. "Like someone was dragging razor blades through my muscles."
"But you moved it," I insist, pressing my other hand to his calf, feeling the slight tremor in the muscle. "Xavier, youmovedit. That's huge."
"Barely."
"It's still progress. Real, measurable progress." I shift position, moving to his left leg, arranging myself so I can support his knee properly. "Okay, same thing. Push against my hand. Left side usually responds better."
"No."
I blink, looking up at his face. "What?"
