I drag myself towards the bar, unsure why I’m still here.
Maybe it’s the pang of jealousy that makes it unbearable to leave, knowing they will be here alone, and I don’t understand anything that happens next. I pour myself a drink and offer her one, which she takes with a small grin.
“He’s yours.” She breaks the silence, and once again, I find myself having nothing to say, but she does. “I’m going to be his wife, and I want to be treated as such. I can look the other way with this. I know his heart isn’t with me.” She laughs into her hand. “And God knows my heart is not with him, but he’s not the only one sacrificing himself. I am too.”
Not once did her voice tremble as she spoke her peace. All I can do is listen. Watching with uncertainty, I’m unsure if she’s talking to me or to the ghost that keeps us all chained to this hell. She turns with a spin, the floral scent of her perfume dancing in the air and, for a moment, we’re just two people caught in the same storm.
“I want a friendship, Zayden,” she says. “With you. With him. Something real before everything burns.”
I nod, because again, what the fuck do I say? Words are useless. There’s too much distrust and too many secrets. How can we form any kind of meaningful bond when they hold the leash to my restraints?
“Think about it, cutie,” she adds before slipping on her heels and downing her drink in one go. “If I’m going to be an active participant in this charade, I want to know the real you.”
My lip's part to speak, but Fabiola gracefully walks away. Now I can gather my thoughts. The door closes, and with that comes the silence. Somewhere behind it, water still runs, and I realize I’m not the only one drowning. And just like me, they are also trying to stay afloat. The shower finally stops, and I'm buzzed enough that my vision swims.
Steam spills from the bathroom as Thiago steps out, a white towel slung low on his hips, hair dripping down his neck. I drinkhim in like the finest whiskey. The air shifts, becoming heavy and electric. Every cell in my body comes alive, and I ignore it. Still by the bar, I’m nursing the last of my drink, pretending I don’t notice the way his eyes find mine.
“You’re still here?” It’s more than a question, as if he’s shocked, I stuck around, and suddenly his words remind me of my one-sided conversation with Fabiola. My cheeks burn hot, and my pulse spikes as I become painfully aware of what’s happening inside me and silently pray he doesn’t. I down the drink, tipping my head back and slamming down the glass with a grunt.
“Fabiola is gone.”
“Okay… Good,” he mutters, mostly to himself.
His wet footsteps take long strides, each step drawing closer towards me. Thiago quickly stands beside me, pouring himself a drink, then another for me. The silence between us settles, thick with words we never say. He leans into the counter, eyes full of wonder, while he watches me like he’s trying to decipher a code.
“You ever think about what it’d be like if none of this existed?” he asks timidly, almost afraid to hear the answer. “If we weren't…” His words trail off, as if he decided against finishing his question.
I laugh, the sound low and bitter.
“We wouldn’t know what to do with peace.”
And I wasn’t lying… My world was shit long before I stepped into this place. Safra gives me a ghost of a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
His voice is low when he says, “You’re probably right.”
The distance between us shrinks. His hand brushes mine when he passes me my glass. The contact burns. The sting lingers. For a second, the world narrows to the sound of our breathing, the faint drip of water from his hair, and the pulse lodged within my throat. He looks at me like he’s about to saysomething… And then he doesn’t. He just moves closer, licking his lips. “Tell me, Ruas, how do you feel?”
The question lands like a double-edged blade. I want to laugh, to run, and disappear. I do none of it; all I manage is a throaty chuckle because I’m nervous being this close to him. “I’m okay.”
He takes in a deep breath before his hand moves to my cheek, and the contact should have me punching him in the face, but instead, I hold his gaze, feeling his finger make small circles against my heated flesh.
“You don’t have to lie to me,” he whispers softly, his breath fanning my skin—mint and heat with subtle hints of whiskey—and I almost break. I don’t say anything because I can’t trust my voice not to give away all the emotion I’m holding back from him. “Give me something…” he pleads, leaning closer so that our lips almost touch. “Anything. Allow me the privilege to know you.”
I clear my throat, hoping to break the magic of the moment. It doesn’t. He holds me there, and I fucking stay.
“You do know me… I’m Zayden, your bitch.” I couldn’t help myself, plus it's getting hot in here. I might as well throw in some water to diffuse the situation. It didn’t work.
He laughs, but there’s no amusement— it’s disbelief. “You think that's all you are to me?” His voice is trembling, like he’s trying to break something fragile between us by exposing too much. “You've been in my bed, my head, my fucking nightmares since we were both freshmen, Ruas. You think I don’t know you?” I swallow hard, diverting my gaze to anywhere but his fucking hazel orbs that plead with me to let him in.
The burn of the whiskey still coats my tongue, but it is far weaker than the poison I deliver. My words are deadlier than any knife.
“You know the version I let you touch,” I say flatly. “That’s not the same thing.”
Thiago’s jaw flexes.
He steps closer until I’m caught between his arms and the counter. The air is charged with electricity, so dangerous that it could strike at any given moment.
“Then show me the rest,” he begs. “The part you hide when you look at me like you hate me. The parts you keep to yourself.” He takes a deep breath to steady himself before his hands move to cup my face within them. “Deixe-me ver você.”1
