Page 58 of His Forced Irish Mafia Bride

He didn’t cut into the silence. Didn’t redirect it. Didn’t try to take control of where my attention landed. He just let it exist.

Between us. Unfilled. That shifted something I couldn’t name.

Because I was used to him steering the space around him. Even when he said nothing, it usually felt intentional, managed and contained in a way that left no room for drift. This didn’t feel like that.

And I didn’t trust what I didn’t understand. That was the part I didn’t like. He was still watching me, but not in a way that asked for an explanation. Not in a way that forced me to speak or retreat.

And I realized something I didn’t want to hold for too long. Neither of us was closing the distance between us. But neither of us was increasing it, either. We were just standing in it, aware of how easily it could shift if either of us decided to move.

Neither of us did. And that absence of a decision felt more unstable than any argument we’d ever had. Because arguments had structure. This didn’t.

This was just space. Held. Unresolved. Still active.

I broke eye contact first. I didn’t want to see what I might recognize if I kept looking. And even as I looked away, I knew something had changed without either of us agreeing to it.

***

Teresa was already there when I turned the corner.

Same place as before, near the storage section where the light never fully reached the floor, cloth in one hand as usual.

I slowed down as I approached. I didn’t stop; I just let my steps fall into something that looked natural. She glanced up, not surprised or interested, like before.

“Hi,” I said.

“Mm,” she replied. I kept walking past her, then slowed near the junction where the corridor widened slightly. She turned back to the cabinet she was wiping, back to her rhythm.

That was when I made the decision. It wasn’t clean in my head.

It was just necessary in a way I didn’t want to examine too closely. I shifted my weight as if I was adjusting my direction. My foot landed on the edge of the uneven tile seam.Oh, oh, wrong angle.

My ankle turned more than I’d meant it to. Pain shot up my leg before I could correct it. I caught myself against the wall with my hand, breath leaving me before I could control it. “Dammit!”

I felt Teresa’s presence shift before I even looked up. The cloth dropped onto the cabinet. Keys lightly jingled as she moved.

She was already coming toward me. I straightened slightly, keeping weight off my foot. “My ankle,” I said quietly.

She closed the distance in seconds. “Don’t move,” she said. She crouched slightly, her eyes dropping to my ankle immediately. “You twisted it.”

“Yes,” I said.

She glanced once down the corridor, quick and instinctive, like checking whether anyone else had seen. Then she looked back at me. “Sit.”

I didn’t argue. I lowered myself carefully down the wall. She exhaled through her nose and turned back to the storage area.

“Stay there,” she added, already moving.

I watched her go, forcing my expression to stay neutral. A few seconds later she returned with a small tin and a folded cloth. She crouched again, setting it beside her.

“This might be painful,” she said.

“I’ll manage,” I replied.

She didn’t respond to that. She just opened the tin and started wrapping my ankle. “You should be more careful,” she said.

I let out a quiet breath. “I usually am.”

That earned me a short look.