Hot and irrational and completely unfair.
It's not Dante's fault that I'm not living a normal life. It's not his fault that I flinch when men get too close. It's not his fault that I check my locks three times before bed and sleep with the lights on and wake up screaming from nightmares I can't remember.
He didn't do this to me.
Daniil did.
But Dante is here. In my apartment. In my bed. And he's texting someone else while I stand in the doorway holding soup I made because a doctor told me he needed soft foods.
I clear my throat.
Dante's head snaps up. His eyes find mine immediately. Dark and sharp and too aware.
"Soup," I say. My voice comes out flat. "Doctor's orders."
I cross to the bed. Set the tray on the nightstand beside him. The bowl clinks against the wood.
Dante puts his phone face-down on the mattress.
"You made this?" he asks.
"No, I ordered it from the soup fairy." I step back. Cross my arms over my chest. "Yes, I made it. Dr. Marchetti said clear liquids first, then soft foods. This is soft food."
Dante looks at the tray. At the soup. The crackers. The pills lined up neatly beside the glass of water.
"Thank you," he says quietly.
"Don't thank me. Just eat it."
I turn to leave.
"Marina."
I stop. Don't turn around.
"Sit with me."
The words hang in the air between us.
I should say no. I should walk out of this room and close the door and go back to my couch.
But my feet won't move.
"I'm not hungry," I say.
"I didn't ask you to eat." His voice is low. Rough from sleep and pain medication. "I asked you to sit."
I turn around slowly.
Dante is watching me. His phone is still face-down on the mattress. His hands are empty now. Resting on his thighs.
"Why?" I ask.
He doesn't answer right away. Just looks at me with those dark eyes.
"Because I'd like you to," he says finally. "You being here. We don't have to talk. Just—" He stops. Swallows. "Just having you here."
Something cracks in my chest.
