Chapter 4 The Past #2
But I found myself leaning into his shoulder, just enough to feel the warmth of him through the fleece. He didn’t say anything, just let me rest there.
“It’s okay. All I want is to feel safe for once in my life.”
My head drooped against Dante’s shoulder, the wool of his fleece scratchy but solid. The panic receded at the edge, like a dog that might bite again at any moment, biding its time.
There was a comfort in Dante’s silence, in how he didn’t press for explanations or try to fix me. He just waited, breathing slow and steady, tethering me to the here and now.
The Sprite can went warm and sticky in my hand, but I cradled it anyway, needing the small chill, the sugar burn.
I tracked the ticking of a basement clock, the way the second hand jerked its way around. The only other sound was the rattle of pipes as the furnace kicked on, and the hum of the fridge, always hungry for more.
We didn’t move for a long time. I think we both knew if we did, the moment would shatter and everything I was holding back would flood the room.
So, we sat, hunched together on the battered couch, while the clock’s juddering heartbeat measured out the infinite, empty seconds.
Eventually Dante reached for the remote, turning on the old TV. The static flickered across our faces, throwing us into silhouette. He didn’t bother with the volume. It was only there to fill the air, to say: here is something harmless, something not meant to wound.
His hand was still on mine, and that felt stranger than anything. I didn’t know what to do with it.
I wanted to squeeze back, to prove I was still capable of caring about another person, that my insides weren’t all burnt resin and rot.
But my fingers wouldn’t move. I just sat rigid, letting a strange numbness creep up my arm, into my chest, until I couldn’t tell if I was breathing or not.
I must have drifted. The basement light was off, the TV’s blue glow replaced by a dark silence.
My eyes snapped open and for a disorienting moment, I didn’t know where I was. The air was cold, but the weight behind me was warm and solid, a body curved along the length of mine.
Dante’s arm bracketed my ribs, his hand splayed gently, not possessive but anchoring, the way you might keep a page from blowing away in the wind.
For the first time in my life, I woke up not to the drone of my mother’s rage or the sulfur stink of pills, but to the slow, steady rhythm of someone else’s breathing.
It was so startlingly gentle I almost panicked; my chest seized, all the old alarms blaring to life, and for a second I considered biting him, or running, or just screaming until the house shook.
But the warmth of Dante’s palm soaked into me, and I pressed my lips together, trying not to make a sound.
It felt good, too good, in a way that terrified me.
Like if I let it in, even for a second, I would need it forever. I’d be ruined.
His chin nuzzled my shoulder. The heat of him, the way his knees hooked the back of mine, the gentle flex of his fingers at my hip, every bit of contact was a reminder that some people could want you without trying to break you.
I wanted to let it happen. To be touched and not torn. But even in dreams, the coil of panic lived at the base of my skull, waiting for a reason to strike.
I lay as still as I could, counting the seconds between his breaths, then the seconds between mine. I lost track, let the numbers unravel, and drifted back to a muted sleep.
This time I dreamed of nothing at all.
When I woke again, it was morning, and the daylight was leaking around the edges of the little window well, painting the cement floor with a weak, gray light.
I shifted, and Dante stirred behind me, groaning and stretching. I tried to squirm free, but his grip only tightened, dragging me closer.
I glanced at the clock and realized it was nine in the morning.
Thankfully, it was Saturday, so no school.
Yet, I had the urgency to leave.
I squirmed away from the warmth of Dante’s body, my movements quick, almost frantic. I could feel the static of his skin linger on mine, a phantom touch that made my teeth clench.
Affection wasn’t something that I was used to. It was foreign and cold. An immense sense of panic overcame me. I thought about the neglect of my mother. The abandonment of my father. How nothing is safe, and everybody leaves.
Leave them so they can’t disappoint you.
Disentangling myself from the couch, I stood, arms folded, shivering in the clammy basement air.
My heart thudded in my chest, a warning drum: Don’t get used to this. Don’t you dare.
Dante blinked awake, confusion fogging his features. “Hey,” he rasped, voice thick with sleep, “where are you going?”
“I can’t stay here,” I said, the words rushed and jumbled. “I just—” I searched for something true, something that wouldn’t make me sound weak. “I need to breathe.”
He sat up, rubbing his eyes. For a long moment, he was silent, watching me with a gaze that tried to pin me down. “You can tell me what’s wrong, you know.”
His tone was gentle, but there was an edge of desperation that made me want to run.
I shook my head, hugging myself tighter. “I can’t… I just can’t.” My voice crumpled at the end, and I hated myself for it. “I’m gonna go home.”
Dante stood, hands outstretched but not quite touching me. “You don’t have to. You can stay as long as you want, Amelia. Nobody’s gonna make you—”
“Please,” I whispered, voice raw. “Don’t.”
He stopped, shoulders dropping.
For the first time, I saw hurt flicker across his face, but it slipped away as soon as it came.
Dante’s arms hung at his sides, all soft threat and apology. He looked so much like a kicked dog I almost laughed, but my lungs were full of splinters. I left before he could say goodbye.
Dante didn’t follow. I knew he wouldn’t. He was good like that. He knew when to back off, when to let my spiral run its course.
Still, I hated leaving him in that half-lit basement, empty arms dangling at his sides, not knowing if he’d ever get to hold me again.
I hated that I already missed the warmth of him, the way his breath had tucked itself into the curve of my neck like apology.
But, I couldn’t have that. It would never last, and it would only end in tragedy.
The neighborhood was empty. No cars humming past, no neighbors scraping frost from windshields, no distant shouts of kids too young to know what bruises lasted longest.
It was just me and the crows, picking at the bones of the morning.
I imagined every family inside, each one a snow globe of warmth and noise and normalcy, and I wanted to shatter every single one.
My hands shook, so I stuffed them in my pockets. I tried to walk slow, but my body kept speeding up, as if I could outrun the memory of Dante’s hand on my hip.
The ache in my chest had sharpened into something new: shame. For needing, for wanting, for letting myself believe, even for a second, that I could have something soft.
The wind whipped hair into my mouth and eyes, but I barely noticed. The taste of old Sprite lingered on my tongue.
I tried to focus on that.
As I approached the house, a stinging sensation pinched deep in my gut.
My mother’s car was missing, but Lillian’s broken-down vehicle was in the driveway. I approached the front door with caution.
I stepped inside, an eerie silence immediately wafted through the air. Nothing seemed out of place, yet a gnawing dread clawed at me.
I made my way toward my room, passing Lillian’s door. It was cracked open, and I peeked inside, freezing at the sight before me.
Shock coursed through my veins, and nausea churned in my stomach. A torrent of emotions surged through me like lightning.
My sister lay sprawled on her bed, and beside her lay my worst enemy.
Caiden.
The chilling realization hit me hard: they were both naked, their clothes were strewn haphazardly across the floor.
Would I run, or would I explode in fury?
The answer became clear.