I shrug, unsure of what to say…
What he’s planning to do is dangerous…deadly…and I’m not sure if I can stomach the weight of it. We spent hours talkingabout his plan, and I almost spilled the beans about Fernanda, and knowing what I know… that mistake would’ve cost us both. Looking at Thiago, I can see the stress, the fear that he carefully tucks away. I clear my throat, hating the silence that stretches between us. Looking up at the night sky, I admire the soft twinkle of the stars.
What a fucking view…
“How’s your dad?” I ask, and I can tell by the way his hazel eyes bulge that my question takes him by surprise. “Is he going to like…”
“Recover?” he intercepts, offering me a nonchalant shrug and smug smile. “Who knows?”
Digging into my pocket, I grab my pack of smokes and join him. Thiago exhales, watching the grey clouds curl into the night.
“It’s strange,” he murmurs after a beat. “It feels the same. He wasn’t much of a father to me. I was more of an extension of him. Nothing else.”
The words hang heavy between us. I nod, because I understand that kind of inheritance. That kind of abandonment —Safra only got a golden cage.
He offers a lopsided grin.
I exhale through my nose before taking another drag. “I know how it feels.”
“I guess you would,” he quietly replies, and the silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s familiar. Comfortable in a way I don’t think I ever felt with Nico. Sure, he’s my brother, but there’s something about understanding someone’s pain. Nico always had love in his life, while I had abuse. And when your body only knows abuse, it’s hard to understand love. It’s hard to walk around and not have your walls up.
Maybe that’s why I feel this way towards Safra… He doesn’t pretend to be good, and neither do I.
Thiago’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “You ever think about how we end up becoming the things we hate?” His fingers move to my arm, where the circular scars remain hidden beneath the ink. The soft pads trail light paths around them, making my skin break out in small bumps.
I swallow hard, scared to meet his gaze, so I focus on the sky instead—not the heat of his stare that burns the side of my face.
“You’re talking about our fathers?” I manage to ask, hating how nervous I sound.
“Mmm,” he coos, his finger trailing higher up the centipede crawling up my arm. “Maybe it’s inevitable. You spend your whole life trying not to be them, and one day you wake up realizing you’ve been walking their path the entire time.”
I scoff… The words fly out of my mouth. “Not me… I’m not a drunk… Or a junkie…”
“Yet violence controls you,” he adds, and I turn to study him.
The way his jaw tightens, the faint tremor in his hand as he discards the cigarette into the ceramic ashtray sitting on the railing. The words sting because he’s not wrong. A chuckle rips from Thiago, the kind that masked his grief—a sound I know all too well.
“My father would always say, control was love,” he grumbles, absentmindedly. “That breaking something was the only way to make sure it belonged to you.” My brows knit, unsure if he’s talking to himself or me. “He would hit me,” Thiago continues, his voice low and mechanical. “Not because I disobeyed. Because he could. My stepmother would try to help, but he would beat her, too. Our house became the kind that you don’t see, speak, or hear.”
I don’t know what to say, even though his words resonate with my soul. I only know that I can recognize the look in his hazel orbs—there’s a hollow understanding of pain that, over theyears, becomes a habit. He clears his throat, snapping out of his trance.
“That’s what my old man taught me,” Safra mutters. “How to hurt and call it love.”
I swallow hard at the way he dragged out the wordlove, as if tasting it for the first time. As if unsure of the meaning… I look away, letting the tension grow thicker with silence—so much it chokes.
“You’re not him,” I whisper, lifting my gaze towards him.
He smiles and weakly counters. “Am I not? I hurt you?”
The truth is damning for us both. And once again, words fail me. I feel myself inching closer, drawn to the pull of him. The way the night folds around us, the way the light from the balcony turns his outline into something half-divine and half-damned. He doesn’t say anything else, only pinches my cheek between his fingers.
To which I scowl, swiping his hand away, trying to ignore the flash of heat coursing through my body.
He steps closer, invading the small space between us. The night presses in, thick and electric. For a moment, I think he might walk away—but instead, he leans in and, without warning, crashes his lips into mine.
I’m stunned.
And Thiago is a man who demands. Who takes. The kiss isn’t gentle; it’s a collision of everything we’ve been avoiding—anger, grief, and, most of all, need. A confession disguised as a kiss. He tastes like scotch and smoke. His hand grips my wrist, holding it down so he can devour me. His tongue, wet and warm, swipes at the seams of my lips. They part to give him access, and all restraint drops. My fingers tangle into his curls, dragging him into me and deepening the kiss. Our tongues clash, a battle of control and surrender. We groan together, our bodies grinding, creating enough friction to create a fire.
