48. Chapter 48
Chapter forty-eight
Alex
The more Lina shared about her past, the more I realized how little the file Reese gave me, actually told me about her.
Hardship doesn’t show on paper. It only shows documented events. Gaps explained with sterile phrases like relocated or family circumstances, enough to outline a life.
I knew her stepbrother was in prison. I knew her mother had passed away. I knew she’d moved—from Texas to Vegas, then back again. But files don’t tell you what she truly experienced.
They don’t tell you about closets and being too small to protect someone you love.
They don’t tell you what it does to a child to live with violence so constant it becomes background noise.
They don’t capture the kind of resilience that isn’t loud or scripted, the kind that keeps going because stopping isn’t an option.
What Lina lived wasn’t a series of events; it was an atmosphere. A constant pressure that never let up long enough for her to forget it existed.
Listening to her, I see how much fucked up shit lived between the lines. How much she carried without ever advertising it. She should be bitter. Closed off. Hardened into something unreachable.
Most people get breaks in their lives. Seasons where things are allowed to be light. Lina didn’t.
Every time the world took something from her, she adjusted and kept moving.
It wasn’t because she was resilient in some inspirational, poster-worthy way—but because stopping was never an option.
There was always something else to manage.
A next step that had to be taken whether she was ready or not.
I’ve seen people who grew up with far less and break far more easily.
Survival wasn’t a finish line—it was maintenance. You wake up, you function, you do what needs to be done, even when your body and mind are exhausted from carrying too much for too long.
And still—somehow—she didn’t turn inward. She didn’t calcify.
Instead, she built. She learned. She showed up. She loved people who didn’t always deserve it. She found ways to create beauty—a business and community—out of a life that gave her very little softness in return.
That’s the part that floors me.
She’s suffered abuse, violence, loss, instability, grief layered on grief—and she didn’t let it turn her into someone small. She didn’t let it steal her curiosity, her generosity, her ability to care deeply.
Most people carry trauma like a wound they keep reopening.
Lina carries it like scar tissue—stronger where it healed, flexible enough to keep moving, proof of damage without being defined by it.
She doesn’t dramatize her past. She doesn’t use it as currency. She doesn’t ask for pity.
She just…keeps going.
A slow, pressure settles in my chest, with no connection to instinct or training. It’s resounding respect and admiration. Something intensely close to awe. She’s not untouched by darkness. She’s built by it.
And that kind of person doesn’t need saving.
She needs someone willing to walk beside her and keep pace. Someone who understands that strength like hers doesn’t come from fearlessness—but from the refusal to quit.
The fact that she’s still capable of love—still capable of choosing me—makes me want her more. It makes me determined to protect her, honor her, and never be another man who underestimates the strength it took for her to become who she is.
Whatever comes next—enemies, fallout, complications—I know one thing with absolute fucking clarity. I will not be the one who fails her. Truth and honesty from here on out. No authority. No control. Just…me.
I didn’t answer EJ to manipulate anything.
I responded respectfully. Like a functioning adult. Which, frankly, feels like it shouldn’t be remarkable—but here we are.
If she’d been angry, I would’ve understood. I would’ve accepted it. Logged it under consequences of poor decisions and moved on.
But she wasn’t.
Then there was the Wingstop confession.
I expected concern. Maybe suspicion. Possibly questions about my sanity.
Instead, she burst into laughter.
Not a polite laugh. Not a careful one. Full-on, can’t-catch-her-breath laughter. She wanted details. Why Wingstop? Why running? Why I thought avoiding her friends-with-benefits by sprinting through the town like a man being chased by demons was a reasonable solution.
When I told her I went for a run because I absolutely did not want to know what was going to happen next, she laughed even harder.
She did point out—fairly—that she should probably be angry about how intrusive I’ve been.
Then she shrugged and said, “But honestly? Wingstop? Hilarious!”
And somehow, the conversation pivoted—from my questionable coping mechanisms to her dating history since I’ve been here.
Which is objectively funnier now that she knows I listened to most of them in real time.
Lina begins by retelling those horror stories, embellishing the worst parts, and I find myself filling in details I absolutely hate remembering.
“The one who talked nonstop about himself—“ she said..
“…and ordered for you without asking,” I added. “Tipped poorly.”
She groans. “God, yes. And the one who said I’d be perfect if I just…”
“…lost a few pounds,” I finish flatly. “Said it like it was constructive criticism. Fuck that guy! You are perfect.”
Her mouth drops open. Then she laughed, shaking her head. “You really heard all of it, didn’t you?”
“Against my will,” I say. “I have survived things that would end lesser men.”
That did it. We laughed harder, breathless, the kind that folds you in half. She was half-mortified, half-delighted, and I realized how much lighter everything felt when we were on the same side of the joke.
Men who talked too much. Men who negged. Men who tried to get too close.
We tear them apart with surgical precision and zero mercy.
At some point, she ends up sitting on my lap at the kitchen table, arms loose around my shoulders, like it was just…normal. Like we’ve always done this.
I hold her here now, steady and unguarded, with no calculation left in me.
No contingency plan. No exit strategy. Just truth.
And a quiet, satisfied certainty that if surviving her past made her this clever, this funny, this alive—
Whatever comes next, I am in the exact place meant for me.
“I know,” I say quietly, “that you deserve someone better than me.”
She leans back and starts to protest, but I signal my disapproval.
“No, wait. Please listen.” My voice is steady, even if my heart isn’t. “You deserve someone uncomplicated. Someone without blood on his hands. Someone whose past doesn’t come with shadows that might spill into your life.” I swallow. “And that’s not me.”
I meet her eyes, refusing to look away from what I am. “I won’t lie to you and pretend I’m the safest choice. I’m not. I never will be.”
Her brow furrows, but she doesn’t move.
“But here’s the truth,” I continue. “I will do whatever it takes to earn my place beside you. I know what you’re worth.”
I gesture between us. “I know what it costs you to choose someone like me.”
My jaw tightens. “I’ll show up. I’ll fight the battles that need fighting and step back when you don’t need me in them. I’ll protect what you’ve built.”
I pause, letting the next part land.
“But know this—I’m way too fucking selfish to walk away from you even knowing all of that.”
A faint, rueful expression appears on my face. “If I walk away because I think you deserve better, I’d be making that decision for you. And you’ve had enough people deciding things for you.”
I pull her close to me.
“I hope you’ll allow me to prove—day by day—that I am worthy enough to stand beside you.”
I pause for a moment. My eyes focused, never leaving hers.
Because the truth—the honest, unfiltered truth—is this: I have no desire to be the man she almost had. I want to be the man she chose, and I want to carry the weight and privilege of that choice.
I draw her closer for another kiss, gentle and endearing.
She holds my face in her hands as our lips collide.