Page 101 of Veil of Smoke

“No,” I say, softly, pressing my hand to his. “I’m your partner. In this war. In this fire. In this bed.”

He nods, a faint grin tugging his lips, and I feel the truth of it, raw and grounding. The city hums below, Lake Michigan stretching endless, and I know this is ours, a moment we’ve claimed.

The breeze brushes my skin, cool against the heat we’ve made, and I settle back, his arm around me. “This is power,” I say, voice steady, staring at the skyline.

“Yeah,” he says, fingers lacing with mine. “The kind that lasts.”

I turn to him, his face sharp in the dim light, and I feel the shift, the equality we’ve built. “We’re equals now,” I say, voice firm, resting my head on his shoulder.

“Always were,” he says, hand warm on my back. “Just took us a while to see it.”

I smile, small but real, and the stars above burn bright, a witness to what we’ve become. “Good,” I say, squeezing his hand, feeling his pulse match mine.

The blanket’s rough beneath us, cushions sunken from our weight, and I feel the night wrap tight, a space that’s ours alone. “This is what I chose,” I say, voice low, tracing his arm.

“And I chose you,” he says, pulling me closer, his breath steady against my hair. “Every time.”

I nod, feeling that settle deep, a root stronger than anything we’ve faced. The city lights glint below, a map of what we’ve fought for, and I know it’s worth it.

“We’ve got this,” I say, voice soft but sure, resting against him. “Whatever’s next.”

“Yeah,” he says, hand steady on my hip. “We do.”

The breeze lifts again, cool and clear, and I feel every breath, every touch, a testament to us, to this fire we’ve lit together.

Chapter 24 – Dario

I steer the truck off the cracked road, pulling up to the abandoned greenhouse on the city’s edge. Wild grass sways around broken fences, and the late afternoon sun casts a golden sheen over the scene.

Viviana steps out beside me, her boots crunching on gravel as we approach. The glass doors hang crooked, rusted hinges groaning as I push them open, letting her slip through first.

Sunlight filters through cracked panels overhead, painting the floor in jagged patches. Vines twist up the walls, reclaiming the space, their leaves brushing my arms as I follow her in.

Soil crumbles dry in some spots, but life clings in others, stubborn blooms peeking through the tangle. The scent hits me, earthy and warm, damp petals and faded memories mingling in the still warmth.

Viviana stops, her breath catching soft, a gasp that pulls my eyes to her. “This was hers,” she whispers, voice reverent, her gaze alight with something deep. “My grandmother. She believed flowers spoke louder than words.”

I watch her move forward, her fingers grazing a rusted trellis where moonflower vines once climbed. She brushes moss off a wooden table, revealing its weathered grain beneath.

Small tags dangle from wire stakes, their faded ink scribbling names and meanings, Hope, Forgiveness, Letting Go. I read them quiet, letting the words settle, heavy with time.

She kneels by a patch of earth, her hands tracing the soil, and I stand back, taking it in. She moves among the chaos like she’s tending ghosts, her touch gentle, sure.

I don’t say much, just listen, the stillness wrapping around me soft and unexpected. The greenhouse hums with her presence, a rhythm I didn’t know I needed until now.

She digs her fingers into the dirt, scooping it aside, her motions grounded, calm. “She used to say roots don’t lie,” she says, voice steady, clear. “What you bury will grow, whether you want it to or not.”

I kneel beside her, the earth cool under my knees, and pull the medallion from my pocket. Massimo’s. Its edges press into my palm, worn smooth from years of carrying it.

I carried this longer than I carried him. Wore it like armor. Like penance. The thought rises unbidden, a quiet ache threading through me.

My hand trembles slightly as I hold it out, the metal catching the fading light. “I think it’s time,” I say, voice low, raw with the truth of it.

The sun dips lower, golden light spilling through the cracked glass, bathing her face as she looks at me. Her eyes hold mine, steady, understanding, and I feel the past shift, not gone, but resting.

She nods, a small motion, and I set the medallion down beside her hands, the soil dark against its shine. The greenhouse stands quiet, vines swaying faint in the low breeze, and I feel the warmth of this place seep into me.

I thought I’d lost this, the quiet, the space to breathe. But here, with her, it finds me, soft as the petals brushing the floor.

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