46. Dante
DANTE
Carrying Rose upstairs to the guest bedroom after bearing my secret wounds to her is the only thing keeping me sane and reminds me why I am here. To protect her, even if it’s from me.
She didn’t even stir when I scooped her off the velvet sofa after she fell asleep as we listened to another record after I told her about my childhood.
Whether it was from her long day or the whiskey, I am thankful to have this uninterrupted moment to study her face so close up.
Her delicate features soften with sleep, and I can almost imagine being greeted by this version of Rose every morning in bed.
Before I can carefully set her down in bed and excuse myself from her room, she lets out a small sigh and her hand that was lightly resting against my chest slowly makes a small fist like she is holding on to me. If only that were the case.
Instead of doing something epically stupid like lying down in bed with her and holding her all night, I gently place her sleeping body on the bed and uncurl her fingers from my shirt.
She stirs briefly before rolling over and pressing her face into her pillow.
I stand there like a statue watching her until her breathing deepens and I can tell she won’t wake, and then I back out of the room, keeping my eyes trained on her the entire time until I can no longer see her as I close the door with a soft click, locking it behind me.