Page 44 of Ready or Not
The weight of it hit me like the wind of yet another train pulling into the station—a sudden, undeniable truth barreling toward me with no chance to dodge. I had let fear drive the narrative, let assumptions fill the gaps where honesty should have been.
And now here he was, laying everything bare while I fumbled for a response that could bridge the gulf between us.
"Desi," I finally managed, his name leaving my lips like an unpracticed word. "I didn't know... I thought I—" I stopped myself, frustrated at how small my voice sounded, at how inadequate every explanation felt.
"You thought what?" he asked gently, stepping closer still until we were only a breath apart. His tone had softened, but there was something behind it that made my throat tighten. "That I'd fold your clothes and pack you out the door like it meant nothing? You really think I'm that kind of guy?"
"I don't know what to think," I admitted. The words rushed out before I could stop them, stinging with more emotion than I'd intended to reveal. "I didn’t know what any of it meant! You folded my clothes, Des. I know that sounds stupid, but for a second, it felt like a goodbye. And I’ve had enough of those?—”
His hands were suddenly bringing my face gently upward, his palms warm against my cheeks as he interrupted my spiraling.
"Stop," he said quietly, his voice steady but kind, like he was trying to anchor me. "Stop overthinking for just one second."
My breath caught in my throat.
The noise of the subway station faded into a hum. Around us, the chaos blurred into oblivion. His dark eyes locked onto mine. There was no avoiding him now, no looking away, no running.
His gaze held me there, pinned me in place, and for the first time in forever, I felt completely seen.
"You didn’t know what any of it meant because I ain’t say it," he continued, his thumbs brushing against my skin in soft, absent circles. "I should’ve told you—should’ve made it clearer with a note instead of some folded laundry. But you’ve got to know by now what I’ve shown you all night…" He hesitated for a heartbeat, his jaw tightening before his next words came out lowbut firm. “… I don’t do things halfway. I never have and never will."
I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat refusing to budge as his words settled over me like a blanket I wasn’t sure I deserved. My instinct screamed at me to look away, to retreat into the safety of deflection, but his hands held me steady, both physically and emotionally.
I couldn’t run from this.
Not anymore.
“What are you saying?” I whispered, barely able to hear my own voice over the craziness of the subway station. “That you… that we…”
“I’m saying… I’m saying… I don’t know how this is supposed to go, but I know I don’t want last night to be the only thing we have.”
I don’t want last night to be the only thing we have.
My heart thudded painfully against my ribcage.
I stared at him, my cheeks still cupped in his hands, as if trying to discern whether I’d misheard. However, Desiderio didn’t falter, didn’t shrink back, or let doubt cloud the clarity in his gaze. His words were there, solid and unyielding like a foundation being laid brick by brick.
“But what if I mess it up?” The question slipped out before I could stop it, the crack in my voice betraying just how deeply rooted that fear had grown inside me.
“You might,” he smiled down at me. “But that’s alright because I might too. You’re not the only one who overthinks things.”
“And if we both mess it up? What then?”
“Then we try again,” he shrugged like it was the simplest answer in the world. Like it wasn’t terrifying or impossible or maybe both. His thumbs traced lazy arcs against my cheeks as headded, “I’m not scared of a little mess, Solène. I’m scared of not trying at all.”
His hands dropping from my face, he took a step back, giving me space as if to let his words settle.
“So what do you say?”
I stood there, caught between the roaring train and the question lingering between us. My pulse boomed loud enough to drown out every ounce of logic I might have clung to—the part of me that wanted to calculate risks, prepare escape routes, avoid pain.
But logic had gotten me here, hadn’t it?
Stumbling through a mess of my own making, unable to say what I truly felt.
I searched his face for something—anything—that might let me off the hook, but all I saw was patience.
That look broke something in me.
