Chapter 1 #7
I huff a laugh. "I just don't get you," I admit. "You're too calm, if that makes sense. This isn't harmless. If this ever ends up in the wrong place, I'm literally fucked. And by extension, so are you, now that you've seen it."
He tilts his head, thinking, then does the last thing I expect.
He lifts his hand to his lips, pantomimes zipping them shut, and twists his fingers like he's throwing away an invisible key.
Then he shrugs. "Okay?" he says simply. "Now it's between us."
I blink at him. "Did you just—" I squint. "Did you just mime zipping your mouth about my crimes?"
"Alleged," he corrects automatically, which is insane, "and yes."
I stare.
Then laugh, incredulous. "You're fucking unbelievable."
"Look." His voice softens. "I'm not your judge. I'm not your lawyer either, so please don't make me one, but I'm not here to punish you for who you were before I showed up."
He taps the box again. "This is scary. I'm not gonna pretend it isn't. But the part that matters to me is that you looked at all this and thought, I want him to know."
He holds my gaze. "That means something," he says.
"Yeah," I mutter. "Means I'm dumb and reckless."
"Or," he counters, "it means you're tired of carrying all of it alone."
I look away.
"Still. You should've freaked out more. Screamed. Thrown something. Told me I'm insane. I don't know. That would've made more sense."
"Well…would that have helped you?!" he asks. I open my mouth, and... nothing comes out. "I'm not saying I'm okay with the things you've done. But I'm not scared of you. If I thought you were gonna hurt me, I wouldn't be in your bed. Trust me on this one."
"So no snitch?"
He rolls his eyes and does the zipped-mouth gesture again, more dramatic this time. "Cross my heart, shut my mouth, be annoying about it forever," he says. "If I ever talk, it'll be to tell you to stop getting yourself killed."
"You're actually not scared?"
He shrugs a little. "Not of you. Just scared of the world that made you feel like this was the only way."
That hits me harder than I expect. He leans against me, his shoulder warm on mine. "Please don't get caught though," he adds, smiling.
"I won't."
"Good. Because I just had sex with a guy with a criminal record and a cat, and I'm not doing this twice."
I laugh, leaning my head against his. "You're insane."
"You're the one with the crime box, punk." We sit like that for a while.
Lulu crawls back into Rava's lap. And even though the box is still open, nothing feels heavy anymore. Not when I know I'm not hiding this side of me anymore.
He asked me why I don't just throw it all away. And I couldn't answer him right.
Because the truth? The truth is I'm fucking terrified.
Not of jail. Not of the cops. Not even of getting caught. I'm terrified because for the first time in my life, I think I don't want to be that guy anymore.
The one who needed this box. Who kept it like a medal, proof that I was sharp enough, fast enough, dangerous enough to survive on my own.
But I look at him, and suddenly none of that feels like power anymore. It feels like armor that's rotting inside me.
I don't need to be that guy around him.
I don't need to perform. I don't need to flash my middle fingers or crack my jaw or show off like some fucking cartoon of a man.
He's the first person who's ever looked at me and seen me. Not just the biceps, not the tattoos, not the Ducati.
Me.
And it's fucking unbearable. Because I've built this whole world around the idea that no one ever would. That I was too much, too selfish, too burnt out to ever be someone anyone could stay for. But he's still here. Even after this. And he's not asking me to prove anything.
He's not scared of me. He's scared for me.
And that makes me love him and hurt myself even more. Because no one ever stayed. They only ever show up for a ride, a thrill, a story. They like the version of me they can brag about.
Touch him, but don't get too close. He'll bite. That’s always the game. But Rava wants to understand me. And now I'm holding everything I've ever done wrong in a rusted metal box, and I don't even want it anymore. I don't want the thrill.
I don't want the weight. I don't want to be the guy with a lockpick smile and no one to come home to. I just want him. His voice. His hand on mine when I'm shaking. His eyes when he looks at me like I'm not just a walking trash.
Like I'm worth something and maybe, just maybe, I could be good. I deserve to be treated well. And I hate how much I want that. But at the same time, I'm glad that he is leaving. Because I don't know how to be that guy.
Because what if I try and fail? What if he wakes up one day and realizes he made a mistake? What if I lose him and there's nothing left of me to go back to?
One hour later
He's slipping his shirt on. I should probably be helping him gather his things, but I just...stand there. He looks up at me as he stuffs his phone into his pocket.
"You're staring."
"Hell yes I do."
He laughs under his breath. "Why?"
"Because I can."
He rolls his eyes, but I catch the way his ears go a little pink. He's trying to look chill, even though he just spent the night kissing me nonstop, moaning my name, cuddling Lulu, and learning creepy stuff about my past.
He's definitely the most dangerous thing that's ever happened to me.
Not because he could ruin me. Because I'd let him. He leans down to tie his shoelaces. "Okay. I'm heading out. Unfortunately. Tell Lorenzo I said hi when he comes here."
I nod, pushing off the doorframe.
I walk to the kitchen counter, pretending to fumble with something until my fingers find the little silver key in the bowl.
Shit.
I hold it for a second.
Don't do it.
"Hey," I say, turning around. My voice comes out rougher than I want it to. "Come here."
He straightens, a little confused. "Yeah?"
I hold out the key. He doesn't take it at first.
Just stares at it, then at me. "What's that?"
"A key," I mutter. "To this place."
He doesn't move. But his eyes went wide open. I swallow. "It's not—look, it's not a big thing. It's just... practical. Makes it easier. So you don't have to knock. Or wait outside. Or text me from the sidewalk like a dumbass."
He still doesn't take it. I exhale.
"And... I trust you. With this."
He finally reaches out.
"You trust me, with your whole…house?" he repeats.
I nod. "You trusted me. With... you know." My voice dips. "With you. With your body. With something that mattered."
His fingers tighten around the key. "And I know what that meant. So I just wanted you to know I get it. I see it. And this is me giving something back."
His throat bobs. "Gio…"
"Don't make a thing out of it," I say quickly. Suddenly I need to look anywhere but at him. He smiles. Then he whispers, almost joking. "Should I take it with me to Canada? To remind me of us."
And everything in me goes still.
Us.
He tries to smile, but it's shaky. It doesn't reach his eyes. And neither of us laughs. Because it hurts. It hurts so, so fucking much.
He's still holding the key like it might disappear.
Like we might. Cause probably we will.
We will disappear.
The ache is too close to the surface. Then he finally looks up again, and his eyes are glassy.
"I should go, unfortunately." he says.
And I should let him. But instead, I step forward. Grab his wrist. Our lips meet somewhere between stay and don't forget me. It's not rushed. It's very gentle.
The kind of kiss that says everything we don't know how to say. Like maybe this is home now. More than just sex or safety.
And that's what makes it hurt. When we break apart, we don't speak. He just squeezes my hand once, and leaves. The door shuts behind him.
And the key is no longer mine.
But I truly don't feel like I've lost something.
6) Fifteen Minutes
Rava
I have a key to Gio Fontana's house.
I have a key to Gio Fontana's house.
I have a key to Gio Fontana's house.
What the fuck am I supposed to do with this? I've opened and closed my palm at least twenty times, and it's still there.
Very much real.
I'm losing it. Because he gave it to me. Casually. Like it was nothing. Who does that?! I'm pacing. I'm sweating. I'm smiling like an idiot. I'm losing my goddamn mind.
Because what the hell am I supposed to do, walk in and say: "Hey. I know we're just hooking up and you don't love me or whatever, but…surprise! I have a key to your place?"
Or maybe:
"Hi. I think I might be secretly, stupidly, desperately in love with you but I can't tell you because if I do you'll panic and run before I get the chance to leave first?"
Cool. Chill. Totally fine. I rest my forehead against my room door.
I think I'm laughing? Or maybe crying? I'm both.
Probably both. I mean, imagine telling eleven-year-old me, awkward little me, still figuring shit out, that one day I'd have a key to the house of the hottest, rudest, most infuriatingly perfect guy I've ever met.
Who also happens to be the best sex I’ve ever had. And the reason I can't sleep right anymore. Even though he used to mock me nonstop. And my dad hates him. And he has a literal criminal record.
But still, every time I see him, it feels like watching an angel who is surrounded by awful people. I mean…It's a key. It opens his door. His place. The one where he sleeps. Where he showers.
Where he exists when he's not with me, pretending we're not something we absolutely fucking are. And now I can go in.
I could walk in, see his jacket on the back of a chair, hear his playlist playing in some other room. That should scare me. It does scare me. But I'm also…God, I'm so happy about it. And that's the worst part. I should be panicking.
I am panicking. But underneath it there's this…hum. I shake my head, laugh under my breath, and finally pull myself together.
The real world's still spinning. We have a meeting. I'm supposed to look professional.
Composed.
…