Chapter Seven #3
"This is—" His voice drops even lower. "This is me, not being able to watch you laugh with another man. Not being able to watch you touch his arm. Not being able to stand the thought that he makes you feel easy when I make you feel—" He stops. "What do I make you feel?"
"Too much." The words come out broken, gasping. "You make me feel too much."
"Good." His hand moves, and I gasp. "Because I feel too much too. I feel—" He stops again, and I can hear the frustration in his voice, the way he's struggling for words. "I do not have words for what I feel."
His mouth finds mine again, swallowing whatever sound I was about to make. His hand keeps moving, keeps touching me in ways that make me shake, make my hands fist in his jacket so hard I'm probably leaving permanent wrinkles, make me forget every reason this is a bad idea.
The snow is falling harder now. I can feel it on my face, cold against my flushed skin. But Santino is warm, his body pressed against mine, one hand in my hair and the other under my shirt, and I'm burning up from the inside out.
My breathing is coming faster now, shallower, and he notices. Of course he notices. He notices everything about me.
His hand moves with more purpose now, more intent, like he's reading my body the way he probably reads a track before a race—learning the curves, finding the rhythm.
"Tell me—" His voice is rough. Strained. "Tell me you understand now."
"I...”
His hand moves faster, more deliberate, and I have to bite down on his shoulder to keep from crying out. "That you are not invisible. That when I am here—" Another movement, his thumb pressing exactly where I need it. "—with you—" Again. "—this is the only place I want to be."
I'm shaking now. Really shaking. Every nerve ending on fire, every thought reduced to the feeling of his hand on me, the taste of his mouth when he kisses me again, the solid weight of his body keeping me upright against the brick.
"Santino—" My voice breaks. "I can't—I'm going to—"
"Yes." His mouth is at my ear now, his breath hot against my skin. "Yes. Let go."
"But we're—someone might—"
"Let go, Thea." His thumb presses harder, circles faster, and his voice drops to something commanding. "Let go for me."
And I do.
Something inside me breaks apart—shatters into a thousand pieces—and I bury my face in his shoulder to muffle the sound.
My whole body goes taut for a heartbeat, two, and then I'm falling, waves of sensation rolling through me that I've never felt before, while Santino’s hand doesn’t stop moving, drawing it out until I'm trembling and boneless and completely wrecked against the brick wall.
When I can finally breathe again, when the world stops spinning and I remember how my legs are supposed to work, I realize he's kissing my temple. Soft. Gentle. Nothing like the desperation from before.
"You are not," he says quietly against my hair, "a phase."
I can't speak. Can only stand there with his hand still under my shirt, his body still pressed against mine, trying to remember how to function as a human being.
Slowly—so slowly—he withdraws his hand. Smooths down my shirt with careful fingers. Helps me straighten my coat, his movements gentle and deliberate, like I'm something fragile he doesn't want to break.
His hand cups my face, tilting it up so I have to look at him.
His expression—
There's no mask. No professional distance. Just him. Raw and open and looking at me like I'm the answer to a question he's been asking his whole life.
"Do you understand now?" he asks.
I nod. Still can't quite find words yet. My voice feels like it's been scraped raw.
"Say it."
"I'm not—" My voice is hoarse, wrecked. "I'm not a phase."
"And?"
"And you—" I stop. Try again. "I don't know what this is."
"Neither do I." His thumb brushes my cheek, catching a snowflake. "But I know I want to find out. I know I have twelve days left to decide, and you will be part of that decision." His forehead rests against mine. "I know that watching you laugh with him today made me jealous. Murderously so.”
I don’t know what to say. I don’t think it’s right that a part of me is relieved and glad that I made him jealous.
He steps back, and I immediately miss the warmth of him. The cold air rushes in to fill all the spaces where he was. "I will walk you home now."
"You don't have to—"
"I am walking you home, Thea." Not a question. Not a request. Just a fact.
We walk the rest of the way in silence. But this silence is different. Charged. Electric. Every few steps, his hand brushes mine, and I wonder if he's counting too. Counting the moments
until he does it again.
We reach my building. Fourteen steps from the sidewalk to the door.
I count them anyway. Can't help it.
He notices. "You are counting."
"I always count."
"I know." He reaches out, tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. "It’s one of my favorite things about you."
"That I'm neurotic?"
"That you are you." His hand lingers on my face. "All of you. The counting and the coffee stains and the way you go invisible when you are scared." His thumb brushes my cheekbone. "All of it. Every single part."
I don't know what to say to that. Don't know how to respond when someone looks at me like that—like all my broken pieces are exactly what they want.
"Tomorrow," he says. "Seven-twenty-three."
"I'll be there."
"And you will not hide from me?"
"I'll try not to."
"Good." He leans down, kisses me once more—quick and hard and full of promise. "Goodnight, Thea."
"Goodnight, Santino."
I watch him walk away. Watch until he rounds the corner and disappears into the snow and the dark. Then I let myself into my building on legs that still feel uncertain, still feel like they might give out at any moment.