Page 195 of Reckless Obsession

Instead, they sent patience. They sent updates. They told me to take all the time I needed, that they weren’t going anywhere, that I wasn’t a burden. They told me Viktor got shot and survived, and they still made sure to send me birthday wishes when midnight struck.

Knowing they love me hurts a thousand times worse than their anger ever could, because it means the only monster in the story is me.

“I’m alright,” I manage to force out, dragging my lips into a tight, brittle smile. “I’m sorry I’m not dressed yet. I just…”

The sentence dies. My throat locks up.

Just found out I have been wrong.

I just found out I made everyone pay for my shame. I just remembered I have a home, and now I don’t know what to do with that.

Dante’s eyes soften.

He does not make me finish.

He sits beside me on the bed, close enough that his thigh presses lightly against mine. The mattress shifts beneath his weight. His shoulder is warm against my bare arm.

“We do not have to go anywhere,” he says. “Dinner can wait. Nothing matters if you are not happy.”

“I am happy,” I say too quickly.

Dante looks at me.

I swallow.

“You make me happy.”

And that part is true.

He does.

Dante makes the world feel quieter. He gives me space without making me feel discarded inside it. He lets me speak when I can and doesn’t punish me when I cannot.

He makes me happy.

So why does it still feel like there is a hole in the center of my chest? Why does it refuse to close no matter how beautiful the coast is, no matter how much I paint, no matter how gently he holds my hand?

Maybe happiness is not supposed to erase every bad thing. Maybe I have spent my whole life expecting it to.

Dante takes my hands in his.

His fingers are larger than mine, warm around my paint-stained knuckles. He brings one of my hands to his mouth and kisses the back of it, his lips lingering there for a second. But when his eyes rise to meet mine, there’s an expression in them that makes my stomach turn over.

It’s sadness.

He’s looking at me with this quiet, unbearable grief like he’s sad for me. Like he can see right through the Italian sun, the bright canvases, and the frantic smiles, straight into the rotting wreckage I’m trying so desperately to bury.

“Kiss me,” I say.

Dante goes still.

A flicker crosses his face—surprise, hesitation, something guarded.

“Amore—”

“Kiss me.”

“Maksim.”