Page 199 of The Lies We Play

That has to count for something.

I lock the phone and press it against my sternum for one foolish second, as if I can absorb courage through technology. Spoiler: I can't. If someone ever invents that feature, women like me will bankrupt themselves and then organize the payment plan alphabetically.

The buzzer rings at five to eleven.

Moises.

Always early enough not to be late, late enough not to look eager. One of the many things I know about him. One of the many things that should make me feel warm, grateful, maybe even safe in the uncomplicated way women are supposed to feel when a good man keeps showing up.

Women are supposed to do many things.

I have failed at most of them with enthusiasm and annotated footnotes.

I let him up and open the door.

Moises stands at the threshold with a paper bag from the little bakery on Via dei Servi, his dark hair damp at the temples, his coat open, his expression already searching mine before he says a word.

I step back.

He comes in and kisses my cheek.

“You look tired,” he says.

Fortunately, he doesn’t say I also look haunted, underfed, emotionally compromised, and one terrible decision away from texting a man who could probably destroy my life with a single sentence.

Maybe he’s thinking it.

Let’s be honest. Tired is polite. Tired is what decent people say when the truth would require a chair, legal counsel, and perhaps a pastry.

“I’m going for mysterious,” I tell him. “Tired is my affordable version.”

His mouth curves, but his eyes stay on me. “Did you eat last night?”

“Half a sandwich at the institute.” I close the door behind him. “I don't recommend it as a wellness practice. The bread had the texture of a legal document.”

“Livia.”

“What? I’m serious. Very binding. Impossible to digest. Probably notarized.”

He doesn't laugh as much as I want him to.

That is the first cruel thing my heart notices.

Not that he fails me. Never that.

Only that I am standing in my kitchen with a man who buys me breakfast, remembers my favorites, kisses my cheek without taking more than I offer, and I am still thinking of Creed. Of Creed’s controlled mouth. Creed’s perfect posture. Creed sending a phone, security, and solutions instead of the one thing I have spent ten years starving for.

I looked for you.

I should have found you.

I never stopped.

And Hal—God, Hal—whose silence has always felt less like absence and more like a locked door with a man bleeding behind it. Hal, who watches everything. Hal, who trusts no one. Hal, who made danger look personal the moment anyone came too close to what he considered his.

Creed would hire a company.

Hal would learn the threat’s name.