Page 39 of Sins of the Hidden

"A brick and mortar is my dream." The words escaped before I could stop them. My parents had offered to buy it outright, but building it was something I wanted to do myself. "I even have a name for it." The words filled the space between us. "Sweet Summer's."

"Why that name?"

My throat tightened. I stirred harder as if the bowl could absorb the weight behind my words. "My mom named her flower shop after me and I wanted to do the same." Each turn ofthe spatula hit harder, but nothing drowned the memory seared behind my eyes. That sterile office with its too-bright lights. The sterile scent of antiseptic, the harsh rustle of pamphlets about fertility options stacked neatly on the desk I couldn't stop staring at. The sound of my own heartbeat in my ears as the doctor's voice seemed to come from somewhere far away. My eighteen-year-old hands gripping that chair like it was the only solid thing in a world suddenly turned upside down.

You'll never be able to have children.

Six words that stole a future I hadn't even started living yet. I'd always assumed I'd be a mom someday—it was just a given, like graduating high school or falling in love. Those words burned in my throat whenever someone asked when I might start a family. Sleepless nights passed, wondering if anyone could ever want a future knowing what couldn't be given.

My hands shook, breath hitching as those sterile office lights flickered behind my eyelids—the rustle of printouts, the hollow scrape of her voice. My grip on the chair left crescent moons in the vinyl. The way I'd walked out into bright sunshine afterward, the world continuing as if mine hadn't just shattered. How unfair it seemed that strangers passed by, oblivious to the emptiness growing inside me where a child would never be.

Sometimes the weight of everything lost pressed against my chest, constricting breath, movement, and existence. Like now, standing in this kitchen with a man who had no idea he was witnessing mourning for a future that died in a doctor's office.

"You don't have a kid." A choked laugh escaped me, covering the familiar ache that bloomed in my chest at those words.

I didn’t have a child, but it didn’t mean I didn’t have names picked out.

"Summer Anne." The second name caught in my throat, heavier than it should've been. The spatula scraped throughgrief-heavy dough. Cherries swirled into the batter, vivid red against quiet white. "It's special to me."

I'd never shared that aloud before, not even with my parents. Saying it here felt dangerous yet freeing, as though offering up that secret pain might lessen its weight.

The silence grew heavy. V was watching me—reading truths I wasn't ready to show.

"Summer?" The way he said it squeezed my heart—something reverent threaded his voice.

He stepped into my orbit, so close I had to tilt my head back to meet his void-colored eyes. His hair was half up, the rest falling over his shoulders, and standing there in my small, overheated kitchen, a change flickered across his face, making my chest ache.

"We'll have Summer one day."

Tears pricked at the edges of my vision. Had he really saidwe? The oven timer's shrill beep shattered the moment.

"C-Could you get that out of the oven for me?" The whir of the fan filled the silence. V's footsteps moved behind me. I glanced back, expecting to see him reach for the lavender oven mitts he'd just bought me.

The scrape of metal made me turn fully, just in time to see his bare hands wrap around the scalding pan. A half-scream, half-gasp erupted—pure instinct. My heart slammed painfully against my ribs. The bowl clattered. Batter hit the cabinets. I grabbed his wrist instinctively, nausea rising as raw welts formed beneath my touch, too calm. Wrong in a way that made my stomach flip.

V stood there casually, holding the burning pan with the nonchalance of a man untouched by pain itself. His eyes met mine, one eyebrow raising in confusion. "What?"

I gripped his wrist. Too warm. Too calm. The smell of burnt skin twisted through the air, nauseating.

I guided him backward. At first, he didn't budge—solid as a statue—but after a moment he followed me to the sink. The lukewarm water hissed against his wounds. "Keep your hands there." My voice shook with panic. Hair clung damp to my cheeks, slick with sweat and anxiety. "What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking I got the cupcakes out of the oven." He bent over the sink, seemingly unbothered by injuries that made me feel sick.

"Your skin's blistering and you're standing there like it's nothing!"

"I don't feel pain."

My fingers circled his wrists, keeping them under the cool water. "What do you mean you don't feel anything?" Another strand of hair fell in my face. "Just because you can't feel it doesn't mean you're not injured."

Our eyes locked, obsidian depths staring back. "CIPA. Nerves don't work."

"What is that?"

His gaze drifted up, expression thoughtful. "Congenital insensitivity to pain."

The implications hit me hard. This man who'd seemed invincible... He didn't flinch, but something behind his eyes flickered—like I'd stumbled on a secret no one was ever meant to name. "If you can't feel it, how can you tell if you get shot or stabbed?"

"I can't."

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