Page 70 of He Should Be Mine
I sit up. I smooth my hair with trembling fingers, wipe beneath my eyes even though I’m not crying anymore. Just in case. I pull the blanket tighter around me like it is armor, like it can hide the crack running down the center of me.
I paste on a smile.
By the time Dario comes over, carrying a tray with tea like some rugged Italian nursemaid, I am composed. Or close enough to it.
“You’re spoiling me,” I say, my voice still hoarse but steady. I pitch it with just enough teasing to sound like myself. I even flutter my lashes a little. Reflex.
Dario gives me a look that’s all fond exasperation. “You’re sick. It’s not spoiling, it’s basic human decency.”
He sets the tray down on the coffee table, and pours the tea. Two sugars, a ton of milk, just the way I like it. Of course he remembers.
I want to kiss him stupid.
Instead, I focus on the tea.
He watches me pick it up with fingers that barely shake. Watches me take a slow sip like it doesn’t hurt to swallow. I give him a little thumbs-up between mouthfuls, trying to look bright.
He doesn’t smile. Not quite. But something in his shoulders eases.
This is what I’m good at. Putting people at ease. Being delightful. Distracting.
So I chatter through mouthfuls of tea I can’t taste, making jokes about hospital food, about how the tea there tasted like boiled beige. I tell him I’ll write a scathing Yelp review and sign it anonymously,Sickly Twink 101.
He huffs a laugh at that. Good. Keep him laughing. Keep things light.
Because if I stop and let the quiet stretch between us again, I’ll remember the way it felt to want. Toneed.
I’m not allowed to need. I have contracts and consequences. I have Rick’s bruises still fading on my ribs.
I don’t get to fall in love with the man who brought me a blanket and watched over me all night like I meant something.
So I flash my smile like a shield and keep the conversation moving. I flirt just enough to make him roll his eyes. I make myself bright and lovely and easy to be around.
And if I feel like I’m faking every breath of it, well, he doesn’t need to know that part.
The apartment falls quiet as night sets in. No more television murmuring in the background, no more soft clinks of mugs in the kitchen. Just the hum of the AC, the occasional creak of the pipes, and Dario’s steady breathing on the other end of the sofa.
If I uncurled my legs, I could reach him. I could rest my feet on his lap.
But I don’t dare to do something so intimate. Not with the ever-present camera. Not with my fragile heart that’s teetering on the edge of shattering into a thousand pieces.
So I watch him instead. It is the only safe thing to do.
He’s reading something on his phone. Legs stretched out, one arm slung along the backrest. His broad shoulders rise and fall with each breath. He looks tired, but not in the usual way. Not like he’s wary, tense and on edge.
He looks… peaceful.
I don’t even realize how intently I’m watching him until I blink and my eyes sting. He’s not doing anything special. Just being still. Just being near.
And it guts me.
My throat is raw, still, but it’s not the infection anymore. It’s the ache of wanting something so badly I can barely hold it in my chest.
Because this is what I’ll lose. This softness. This quiet.
This man who makes tea the right way and never demands anything from me that I don’t want to give.
I tuck my feet up even more and hug my knees under the blanket, pretending I’m cold so I don’t have to explain the way my chest hurts.
