Page 77 of The Ache That Stayed

I still measured myself with him. My words. My reactions.

The parts of me I let him see. Not because he asked me to. But because I was afraid of what would happen if I didn’t.

There were things inside me I kept folded away. Sharp edges. Dark corners. The kind of thoughts that didn’t belong near someone so good.

Because what if he saw them? What if he looked at me differently? Worse—what if he left?

That fear had never gone away. No matter how gently he held me. No matter how many times he told me I was his and that he loved me.

And then there was Santino.

With him I didn’t think. I didn’t measure. I didn’t soften myself into a version easier to hold. Instead, I was louder. Sharper. Unfiltered in ways I didn’t even recognise until I saw it reflected in his eyes. I could push him. Call him out. Say things I’d never dare say to anyone else. And he never—not once—made me feel like I had to take it back.

He didn’t try to hold me together. He didn’t try to fix the edges. He let them exist.

And when he walked away, it didn’t just feel like distance. It felt like a piece had been ripped out of me. A part I didn’t even realise I had given him. A truth I didn’t want to recognise.

And now he was back. And everything I’d carefully kept in place started slipping. Because being around him made it harder to lie to myself.

Why did my body have to react that way? Why did I lean into Santino instead of pushing him away?

I didn’t understand it. I didn’t want to understand it.

I stood up and pushed myself to the bathroom. The reflection in the mirror showed another woman. My lips looked swollen. Bruised—evidence of last night’s betrayal.

I stripped and stepped under the spray without waiting for it to warm. The cold water hit like a shock instantly. I needed that. Needed a force stronger than memory.

But even with the water, even when my skin turned numb, I could still feel him. His hands in my hair. His mouth. The weight of his palm on my breast. The unmistakable hardness of him against me.

Awareness swept through me instantly again.

Traitor.

My breath stuttered. I braced my palms against the wall, head dropping forward.

Why him?

Why now?

I had everything. Didn’t I?

Marcello—the man who loved me.

The kids—who look at me like I’m their world. A life I had built back from nothing.

Wasn’t that enough? Wasn’t that supposed to be enough?

So why did one moment, one damning moment of weakness, one kiss—feel like a fundamental shift?

Why did it feel like Santino rekindled fire in me that refuses to settle? The very thing I’d spent years trying to bury.

And every time I thought of the way Santino looked at me, why did my chest tighten?

A faint tremor ran through me before I could stop it.

I pressed my palm flat against my stomach, grounding myself, trying to steady the feeling of being pulled in two directions at once.

There had always been a cost to wanting. A quiet one. The kind no one spoke about. The kind your body remembered long after your mind tried to forget.