He's leaning against the counter like it's the only thing keeping him upright.
He cleaned my kitchen with a bullet wound in his side.
Fixed my faucet.
Washed my dishes.
And now he's asking permission to sit down.
"You're unbelievable," I say.
"I've been told."
I shake my head. "Fine. Couch. Now."
He pushes off the counter. The movement is slow. Careful. I can see the pain in the way he holds himself, the way his hand hovers near his side without actually touching the wound.
I don't offer to help.
He doesn't ask.
We make our way to the living room in silence. Dante lowers himself onto the couch with a grunt that he tries to hide. I stand across from him, arms still crossed, waiting.
He settles back against the cushions. Looks up at me.
"You going to stand there the whole time?"
"Maybe."
"Suit yourself."
Another moment of silence.
Then he asks, "What do you want to discuss?"
The question is simple. Direct.
But the answer isn't.
I want to discuss why he tracked me for two years. Why he showed up at my door instead of a hospital. Why he looked at me like that in the hallway, like I was something precious and terrifying all at once.
I want to discuss the hospital. The days he sat beside my bed while I was unconscious. The way he left without a fight when I told him to go.
I want to discuss the way my heart races every time he says my name. The way I can't stop thinking about him even when I'm furious. The way I hesitated on that bed earlier, when I should have pulled away immediately.
I want to discuss all of it.
But I don't know where to start.
So I start with the simplest question. The one that's been burning in my chest since the moment I opened my door and found him bleeding on my doorstep.
"Why me?"
Dante's expression doesn't change.
"Why you what?"
"Why did you come here?" I uncross my arms. Let them fall to my sides. "You were shot. You were bleeding out. You had aphone. You could have called Lorenzo. Called the family doctor. Called anyone."
