Page 54 of The Ache That Stayed

The nightmares had started again the year he disappeared.

Not every night. But enough.

Enough to remind me what abandonment felt like in my bones.

Enough to remind me that people who promised they wouldn’t leave always did.

Stupid.

Stupid.

Stupid.

He crawled for you and you almost melted. My throat burned.

Because the truth was worse. For one second—one stupid, dangerous second—I had wanted to reach out and touch him.

That was what terrified me. That I still wanted the man who could make me laugh while doing something reckless.

And the man who could break me without even trying.

Anger returned like oxygen filling my lungs, twisting together under my skin until I couldn’t separate them and I clung to it. Anger was safe. Anger meant I still had control.

Eventually I slept again. Shallow. Restless. Guarded.

And somewhere in the back of my mind, the image of Santino Rossi on his knees refused to disappear.

CHAPTER 14

Santino

Roxanne didn’t forgive me overnight. She didn’t suddenly soften or pretend the last two years of silence between us hadn’t happened. Not in a way anyone else would notice. Just enough that the air between us felt different.

Because the scales shifted after that night—after I dropped to my knees, and crawled to her like a man who’d lost every scrap of pride he owned.

She didn’t treat me like another piece of furniture in the house anymore. She started speaking to me in actual sentences instead of clipped monosyllables. Sometimes she even laughed at what I said—quick, surprised little laughs that seemed to escape before she could stop them.

It wasn’t forgiveness yet. But it wasn’t the cold wall she’d built around herself either. The distance between us had changed shape. Not gone. Just… different.

That alone felt like progress.

Every morning I made breakfast anyway. Eggs, toast, whatever was in the fridge. And chai the way she liked it—strong, too much ginger, just enough sugar to take the bite out of it.

The first day she looked suspicious. The second day she took the mug without a word. By the third day she muttered “thanks” like it had slipped out by accident.

Progress. Small and fragile, but real.

I learned the way she liked her chai years ago. Back when knowing small things about her was the closest I was allowed to get.

Now she sat across the table from me some mornings in those tiny sleep shorts and oversized t-shirt, hair messy, still half-asleep. And I had to focus on the stove, because restraint was the only thing stopping me from dragging her into my lap and ruining both our lives before breakfast.

So yeah. Making chai was safer.

Because once I started touching her, I wasn’t sure I’d stop.

And honestly? I wasn’t in a hurry to test that theory.

Watching her make my life difficult now felt almost polite in comparison. Like being invited to tea where the host occasionally threw knives instead of biscuits.