I look down at our joined hands. His are so much larger than mine. Capable of so much violence. Capable of so much tenderness when they choose to be. The sight of them holding mine after everything we tore open last night makes my chestcave in with a pain so sharp and sweet it steals my breath. And I realize I’ll never survive a gentle love. I’ll never survive any kind of love that isn’t his.
I turn my hand over in his and grip back just as tightly.
The sun finally clears the horizon in a slow, golden bloom. Light spills across the sea like liquid honey, catching on the waves, turning the whole world soft and new and impossibly hopeful. Tears prick my eyes again, but these aren’t the violent ones from last night. These are quieter. Deeper. The kind that come when you realize you’re still choosing someone even after you’ve seen the very worst of them.
Reth’s fingers tighten around mine.
I feel him look at me, but I keep my eyes on the sunrise, letting the light wash over both of us. Letting it touch the broken pieces. Letting it remind us that even after the darkest nights, something in us still reaches for the morning.
We stand there, hand in hand, two ruined people watching the world remember how to be beautiful.
And for the first time since he started confessing, I feel something dangerously close to peace settle in the wreckage of my heart.
Because this—this—is still us.
Still choosing.
Still holding on.
Even when it hurts like hell.
22
SOPHIA
The market is beautiful and vibrant, buzzing with tourists and locals.
Narrow stone streets, canvas awnings in faded colors, stalls of tomatoes and olives and honey and dried herbs that smell like the hillside they came from. Old women arguing prices in Greek. Cats sleeping on walls. The sea visible at the end of every street.
It took me an hour to convince the guys. Reth refused with a silence that means the answer is no and he's already moved on to the next thing and expects the conversation to do the same. Ian refused with a list of reasons long enough that I stopped listening after ‘If we get mobbed, it’ll be your fault, and your stalker will probably kill half the town—and can you please not wear that dress again because I’m not equipped for the consequences. And by consequences, I mean the human karambit over there stabbing people and I'll have to help bury them.’
And now here we are, and I’m wearing the dress.
Ian has been here approximately three minutes and has already found someone to argue with about cheese.
"This is a travesty," he says, holding up a wedge of something and examining it with the expression of a man who has been personally wronged. "This is not aged properly. You can tell by the texture."
"You cannot tell by the texture," I say.
"I absolutely can. Feel this." He thrusts it toward me.
"I'm not feeling your cheese, Ian."
"It's not my cheese. That's the problem. This man is trying to sell me inferior cheese."
The stall owner watches this exchange with the philosophical patience of someone who has been selling cheese on this island for forty years and has seen everything.
Reth walks slightly ahead of us. Never far ahead — never more than a few feet — but always scanning. The buff is down today, and I notice the wary glances he draws.
Not hostile. Just… aware. The way people become aware of something that doesn’t quite belong. He’s too still for a place built on constant movement. Too watchful in a crowd that isn’t watching anything at all. Women glance at him and look away quickly, the way you do when something dangerous registers before your brain can name it. Men clock him and suddenly find somewhere else to be. A boy stares openly the way children stare at things adults have learned to pretend they haven't seen. He moves through all of it completely untouched by it.
Ian appears at my shoulder. “You’re staring.”
“I’m observing.”
“That’s what stalkers say.”
“I’m not the stalker in this relationship.”
