Chapter 43 Gianni
Gianni
I had been parked across the street long enough for the engine to go cold.
Long enough for the night to settle around me and turn everything heavy and watchful.
The street had slipped into that late-evening quiet where even the wind sounds like it’s trying not to disturb anyone.
Across from me, Mikayla’s house glowed soft and warm, one stubborn square of light in a row of darkened windows.
A lighthouse for idiots who had ruined their own lives.
I told myself I was there for security. To watch over her and protect her.
That was a beautiful lie.
I was there because when she left, she took something with her that had not come back. Something that did not respond to logic or pride or the fact that I had a thousand more important things to do than sit in a parked car like a private detective with no case to work on.
The front door opened.
I went completely still.
She stepped out into the night, wrapped in a sweater that looked too thin for the air, like she was either braver or more stubborn than the weather. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, dark and familiar and far too effective at making my lungs forget what they were supposed to do.
For one ridiculous, suspended second, I just stared.
Then she crossed the street.
She didn’t go in the opposite direction. She didn’t walk past me. But straight toward me.
I did not have time to prepare for that. Or recover or remember any of the reasons why this was a terrible idea.
Her knuckles tapped lightly against the window.
Three soft knocks.
I slowly lowered the window, half convinced that if I moved too fast she would vanish, like some cruel hallucination my brain had invented to punish me.
Her face filled the opening.
It was warm, real, and close enough for me to reach out and touch her.
She looked… good. Better than I remembered. Alive in a way that made something deep under my ribs tighten and ache. And somehow, impossibly, she was smiling.
At me.
“What are you doing here, Gianni?” she asked, her voice light, amused. “It’s terribly rude to lurk in the neighborhood and not even come in for a coffee.”
For a second, I just stared at her.
It felt like she had reached into my chest and moved something fundamental. Like gravity had politely resigned.
“I—” I stopped, tried again. “Dunn shouldn’t have sent you out here.”
“He didn’t,” she said, a small smirk tugging at her mouth. “He suggested.”
Of course he did. The man had never met a situation he could not meddle in.
I opened the door and stepped out of the car, suddenly too aware of myself. The stubble. The sleepless eyes. The fact that I probably smelled like I’d stepped in a pile of shit and forgotten to wash it off.
She did not seem to notice. Or if she did, she was being kind enough to ignore it.
“Come on,” she said, already turning back toward her house. “You cannot sit out here like a serial killer. It’s terrible for resale value.”
I followed her, because of course I would.
Inside, the house was quiet and orderly in a way that felt clinical. Like someone had been scrubbing their life clean and hoping nothing bled through. The furniture was ordinary, but some things were obviously missing. The ghosts had been packed away.
She set a kettle on, moving through the kitchen with the kind of confidence that comes from deciding you belong somewhere, even if you are still convincing yourself of it.
“So,” she said, glancing at me over her shoulder. “What are you doing these days? Besides stalking me.”
I leaned against the counter, hands in my pockets, trying not to look like a man who had almost lost everything.
“Fixing things,” I said. “Breaking others. Same routine.”
She hummed. “Sounds very emotionally balanced.”
“And you?” I asked. “Do you like working at the library? It looks like a quiet, murder-free existence.”
“I shelve books,” she said. “I argue with old men about late fees. I pretend I do not jump every time a car door slams outside. You know. Living the dream.”
That smile again. Brave. Fragile. Infuriatingly bright.
We made small talk like two people who had not torn each other open. Like there was not a crater between us filled with things we were not saying.
It almost worked.
Almost.
Then something in me finally gave way.
Not in a dramatic, throw-the-furniture kind of way. More like a quiet, exhausted crack. The sound of something that had been holding too much for too long deciding it was done pretending.
“I can’t do this,” I said.
She froze, mug halfway to her mouth. “Do what?”
“Pretend I’m fine,” I replied. “Pretend you leaving didn’t tear something out of me that never grew back.”
Her eyes shifted, softer now. Careful.
“I feel like part of myself is missing,” I went on, because once the truth starts leaking, it does not stop politely. “And it’s ridiculous because you’re right here. Alive. Breathing. Looking at me like I didn’t completely lose my mind over you. But it still feels like I lost you.”
The room fell quiet in that way that feels heavier than noise.
She studied me for a long second, then set her mug down like she was afraid of spilling something more fragile than coffee.
“Well,” she said gently, “why didn’t you say something, silly?”
I blinked. “That’s… it?”
She stepped closer, close enough that I could smell her soap. “You do not get to suffer in silence and then act shocked when you’re miserable. If you miss me, you are allowed to say it.”
“I didn’t think I was,” I said.
“Allowed?”
“Forgiven.”
Her hand lifted and rested against my chest, right where it still ached like an old injury that never healed properly.
“I left because I was scared,” she said quietly. “Not because I didn’t love you.”
That word worked its way into my chest and lodged there, deep and permanent.
“Turns out it didn’t matter what your end game was, Gianni,” she went on. “Because my heart never got the memo. But I never stopped wanting you.”
My breath came out rough, uneven. “I just… did not know how to protect you without building walls.”
She smiled, small and sad and fond. “You are terrible at half-measures, Gianni. But you are trying now.”
I nodded once. That was all I trusted myself with.
“I am.”
Her fingers slid into mine, warm and steady, like she had always known exactly where to fit.
“Then maybe,” she said, “we try again. Without the cages.”