Page 87 of Santa Daddy
We stayed there for a long time, breathing in sync. City lights played across the glass, over the tree, over our reflections. Two silhouettes tangled together instead of isolated shapes on either side of the bed.
“I never thought I’d want to live past thirty,” he said eventually, voice rough with something I’d never heard from him before. “Then you looked at me in that lot, and suddenly I wanted… forever.”
Forever.
In his world, forever was measured in seconds between bullets. In mine, it had vanished the second I’d stepped into his.
I lifted my head and studied his face. The vulnerability there, the way his usual composure had finally, completely shattered.
“What does that mean for us?” I asked.
His hand came up, cupping my cheek, thumb brushing across my skin like he was memorizing it.
“It means,” he said slowly, “I’m going to do everything I can to keep you alive. Even if it kills me.”
Even if it kills us both.
The fragile line between desire and danger had been obliterated. Whatever this was, it wasn’t just possession anymore. It wasn’t just need or desperation.
It was love. Messy, impossible, probably deadly love between two people who should’ve run screaming in opposite directions and somehow hadn’t.
I opened my mouth to say it—that maybe survival wasn’t the point anymore, that maybe some things were worth burning out for—but stopped.
For now, this was enough.
For now, we were enough.
We lay there in the half-dark, snow falling silently outside, Christmas tree lights reflecting off the glass in soft pulses. I let myself relax fully into his arms for the first time.
Tomorrow would bring new lies. New enemies. New reasons to run.
Tonight, there was just us.
And somehow, terrifying as it was, that felt like the safest place I’d ever been.
17
TWO PINK LINES
DANI
The nausea hit the second my eyes opened.
No gentle queasiness. No “maybe I shouldn’t have had that third glass of champagne.” This was sharp, rolling waves that had me slapping a hand over my mouth and sprinting for the bathroom like the building was on fire.
Please be bad food. Please be stress. Please be literally anything but what I think this is.
I made it to the toilet just in time.
My stomach emptied itself with aggressive enthusiasm. Knees on cold marble, forehead against cool porcelain, I tried to remember how to breathe between heaves.
When it finally stopped, I sat back on my heels and stared at the grout.
Another morning.
Another fucking morning of this.
“Oh, no,” I muttered. “Absolutely not.”
