Page 54 of Hidden Memories

“I’m staying,” I say simply. “That’s final. I already told Julia, and she agreed.”

She scoffs. “Of course she agreed.”

Her arms cross over her chest. A defense. A deflection.

The gesture draws me straight back to the past. I loved this about her. She used to smell as sweet as musky rose but had the bite of a jalapeño.

I cock my head. “I think what you mean to say is thank you.”

She rolls her eyes toward the ceiling. “You still think highly of yourself, I see.”

I take two slow steps closer, closing the space between us and cage her in with my arms. My breath ghosts over her skin. “And why shouldn’t I?”

She swallows, but just as quickly, she recovers. “I guess we just don’t share the same moral compass, Santi.”

It’s a gut punch.

Before I can fire something back, my phone buzzes.

I glance at the screen. The front gate. The social worker is here.

“Get it,” she says, brushing past me. Her body glides against mine, just the briefest touch, but it’s enough.

Enough to light me the fuck up.

I exhale, hard. Why does she still get such a rise out of me?

I answer the call, gripping the door handle. “Let her in.”

I should walk away from her problems. Walk away from her.

But deep down, I already know—I won’t. And that right there? That’s a problem.

Because this isn’t like before. Back then, it was just me. Just a broke kid with a dream and a girl who made the whole damn world shine. If I got reckless, if I made the wrong move, it wasmyfuture I was gambling with.

But now?

Now, there’s Owen. A kid counting on me to give him a home. A judge dissecting every part of my life, deciding if I’m stable enough, steady enough, good enough.

And Kat?

Kat is a goddamn hurricane in the middle of my already unstable life.

She pulls me under, drags me back to who I was, to a time when all that mattered was passion and love and chasing something wild. But wild doesn’t get you custody of a kid who’s already been let down. Wild doesn’t get you chosen.

I should keep her the hell away from me. Remind myself that what we started under that tree all those yearsago is done. That I don’t have space for her in my life, not when I’m already hanging on by a damn thread.

But that’s the thing about Kat.

She’s always been the exception.

I grip the door handle tighter. The cool weight of it presses against my palm, grounding me, keeping me from doing something reckless.

She’s still standing there, watching me, reading me like she always could. The way her lips part slightly, the slow rise and fall of her chest—I can see the battle warring inside her, too.

And damn if it doesn’t make me want to slam her up against the wall and lose myself in her.

But I can’t.

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