47. Chapter 47
Chapter forty-seven
Lina
Ifocus on my hands as I begin to relive the past.
“My younger brother and I…we experienced a lot of physical abuse as kids,” I continue. “The kind that doesn’t leave room for confusion about whether it’s wrong.” I swallow.
“I was locked in closets for hours at a time. Total darkness. No sound but my own breathing.” My voice stays steady, even though the memory isn’t. “While that was happening, my younger brother was beaten black and blue. And I couldn’t protect him. I could hear it, but I couldn’t stop it.”
Fear loses its power when it becomes routine.
Locked in darkness long enough, your mind stops fighting it.
You count breaths. You detach. You learn that panic wastes time—and time is the one thing you can’t afford to lose.
I didn’t learn how to scream. I learned how to withstand it without making noise.
Alex’s jaw tightens, but he still doesn’t speak.
“When I was eleven,” I go on, “my brother became the leader of a local gang.” I scoff with laughter like this all sounds like a joke.
His eyes flicker slightly.
I draw a steadying breath. “At 16, he was selling drugs and laundering weapons. So we were constantly surrounded by violence.”
“The abuse toward me eased up after that—but he kept hurting our younger brother.” I pause, fingers curling into my palm.
“Our normal life was drive-by shootings. Gang members always hanging around. Chaos everywhere.” I gently close my eyes, remembering it all.
Violence didn’t feel like a crisis. It felt like weather—something you checked before leaving the house. You learned which streets to avoid, which faces to trust, when to disappear into the background.
Other kids grew up afraid of strangers. I grew up afraid of familiarity—the people who smiled at you one day and hurt you the next.
I meet Alex’s eyes again. “Until, Peter went to jail. Then prison. Charged with capital murder. He was only seventeen.”
Silence stretches.
“And then,” I say softly, “just a year later my mom got sick.”
Alex’s expression changes—he already knows where this leads.
“She went back to Korea for treatment to get better care.” My throat tightens. “She ended up dying there alone.”
I sit back, the last of the story hanging between us.
“And you know the rest. I found myself in an abusive relationship. Something familiar, I guess.” I say.
“I suppose you don’t learn to fear danger when danger is where you’ve lived. You learn how to read it. Measure it. Decide whether it’s survivable.”
I shake my head. “Nothing surprises me anymore. Nothing scares me the way it probably should.”
I hold Alex’s gaze.
People think bravery is the absence of fear. It isn’t. Bravery is what happens when fear stops being effective. When you’ve lived long enough, knowing that panic won’t save you—but conviction might.
I don’t move toward danger because I want it. I move through it because I know how.
“I’ve been in survival mode my whole life,” I continue.
A faint, sad grin appears on my lips. “So if you think your past and your world frightens me, and will push me away, it doesn’t and it won’t.”
I let the truth settle between us.
My voice doesn’t waver, but something in my chest tightens.
I take a steady breath and say, “I’m still here, Alex.”
Sitting in front of the man who now understands why darkness doesn’t scare me—because I learned how to live inside it long before I ever had a choice.
“I’m not afraid of you or your past. Mine is just as fucked up.” I huff.
I lean back, the weight of honesty settled into my bones.
Alex doesn’t speak.
He watches me, absorbing every word.
And as the silence stretches, something in my chest loosens—not fear, not relief, but truth.
Because telling him this makes one thing unmistakably evident: we didn’t find each other by chance. We recognized each other.
You can’t fake that kind of understanding. It only exists between people who’ve lived through things most never have to imagine.
I let the quiet hold what I’ve laid bare, giving the room space to breathe again.
Alex still hasn’t moved. He hasn’t looked away. He hasn’t tried to soften my story or explain it into something easier to swallow.
He simply, respectfully listened. That matters more than anything.
I take a slow breath, grounding myself, then meet his eyes.
“I’m certain,” I say.
The words come out steady. Not dramatic or impulsive.
“I want you. I at least want to try making this work. I think we have a long way to go before deciding on anything more than that.”
He searches my face, like he’s making sure I understand what I’m saying. Like he’s giving me one last chance to walk away.
I continue. “I know there’s risk. I’m not pretending otherwise.” I pause, choosing my next words carefully. “I have a business. I have family. I have people I love. I’m aware of what being with you could mean.”
I draw myself closer.
“But I also know what it feels like to live half-alive because you’re too cautious to choose something real.”
His jaw tightens, and I watch the lump in his throat bob. I see emotion sitting at the edge of his storming eyes.
I reach for his hands, lacing my fingers through his.
“As long as we face things together,” I tell him, steady and sure, “I’m in. Fully.”
He stares at me, and then a smirk begins to form. He grabs my hand and brings it to his lips to kiss.
“Since we are on the topic of honesty,” he says.
Curiosity peeks as I wait for what he’s about to profess.
“Last night,” he continues. “While you were asleep. Your phone was on the nightstand, and it lit up with a message.”
My brow creases slightly. “Okay…”
“It was a text,” he says. “From EJ.”
My expression doesn’t harden. If anything, it softens—I have a pretty good idea of where this is going.
“I didn’t go digging,” he adds. “But his name popped up. And the message wasn’t…subtle.”
He pauses. “I replied on your behalf.”
“You did?”
“Yes,” he confirms. “I simply told him you weren’t interested anymore.”
There’s a beat.
I reach for my phone, unlock it, and scroll to find the message.
I laugh out loud. “Oh my God,” I exclaim, my chest bouncing with laughter. “You were actually very respectful.”
He lets out the breath he was holding. “You’re not mad?”
I stare at Alex.
“No,” I say honestly. “I’m not.”
I set the phone down. “After everything I’ve learned about EJ…whatever curiosity I ever had is gone. Completely.”
I hold his gaze and something shifts in his chest.
“I was worried I crossed a line,” he admits. “I didn’t want to decide anything for you.”
I study him for a second longer, letting the truth of it all settle in my chest.
“I appreciate your honesty,” I say quietly.
I glance down at my phone, then back up at him.
“You set a boundary without drama. Nice work.” I laugh.
“You also said out loud what I’ve been hoping to hear from you. That we are together.” I say, smiling.
Silence settles between us.
“I should probably say this part out loud too,” he adds, as he pulls his chair up to me, closing the space that existed between us.
“I’ve fallen for you, Lina,” he says, gently caressing my cheek with his thumb.
The words don’t rush. They don’t need to. They settle—steady, honest, undeniable.
I let the confession hang as a faint smile forms. Alex raises his hand to cup my cheek.
“I don’t want you for just tonight. I want your good days and bad days and all the ordinary moments in between.”
His thumb brushes across my cheek, and I shut my eyes for a moment, savoring the simple tenderness of it.
No one has ever said anything like that to me. Not Cole. Not anyone. Because the ordinary moments are the ones people overlook. The quiet mornings. The lazy afternoons. The evenings spent doing absolutely nothing. They’re not grand gestures or sweeping declarations. They’re moments of life.
When I open my eyes again, Alex is still looking at me like I’m something precious. Something worth choosing. And that means more than any romantic speech ever could.
“I’ve fallen for you too,” I whisper.
His eyes search mine, as if he’s making sure he heard me correctly.
A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. “I think I did a while ago.”
Something softens in his expression, and the sight of it makes my chest ache.
I lift my hand to his jaw, tracing the rough stubble there before finding his eyes again.
Then I lean forward and press my lips to him. A promise, sealed with a kiss.
When I pull back, my forehead rests against his.
It’s only been days. I know that. On paper, time would argue against us. But whatever exists between us doesn’t measure itself that way. It moves deeper than calendars, faster than logic, like recognition rather than discovery. And for once, that’s enough.
And whatever comes next—danger, fallout, hard truths—I know this much without hesitation. I don’t want safety that costs me connection. I want him.
He pulls back, surveying me when a smirk forms.
“Since I didn’t overstep last night…,” Alex says, smirking, “What about with Wingstop?”