Page 171 of The Ache That Stayed

Once, I thought that instinct was possession. Simple. Primitive. Absolute. Now I understood it differently. It wasn’t ownership. It was the relentless need to know she still chose me.

Back then, certainty had come easily. I kissed her like nothing in the world could take her from me. Now I knew better. And somehow, I loved her harder because of it.

And this time, it was different. Not because I held her any less. But because now—I knew exactly what it cost me to do it.

And I did it anyway.

Maybe love wasn’t measured by how tightly you held on. Maybe it was measured by what you were willing to survive to keep them.

I sat up slowly, dragging a hand over my face, exhaling through the reality of us that hadn’t quite settled in my chest since the night before.

The room was quiet. And for a moment, I let myself sit in it. Because this was the part no one saw. The part that came after the decision.

I had seen it. Long before any of this. The way she laughed differently around Santino. The way a part of her came alive in ways I couldn’t reach. I had noticed it. Measured it. And then—ignored it.

Because she always came back to me. And as long as she did, I told myself it didn’t matter. I was wrong.

I used to think I understood her. Now I understood there were parts of her I had never known how to reach.

My gaze drifted back to her. She hadn’t moved. Still curled into the space I had left behind, like her body hadn’t realised I wasn’t there anymore. My jaw flexed before I could stop it, chest tightening hard enough to ache.

She came back.

Even after crossing a line that should have ended everything. Even after becoming the kind of complication men like me were taught to eliminate. She came back. To me.

And that was the only truth that mattered now.

I stood, grabbing my shirt from the floor, pulling it on before stepping out of the room.

The villa was quiet this early. No children. No movement.

Just the faint sound of the sea beyond the terrace and the low hum of a house that had yet to wake. It should have felt like control. It didn’t.

Because control would have been easy. Control would have meant ending it.

Him.

Her.

Everything.

Instead, I was here. Making coffee in a kitchen that felt too still. Thinking about the man I had already chosen not to kill.

Thinking about the woman sleeping in my bed who had broken every rule I had ever lived by. And choosing her anyway.

I exhaled slowly as I braced my hands against the counter, head dropping forward for just a second. This wasn’t weakness. That was the mistake people would make.

This was control. The kind most men didn’t have.

Control was never about fear. It was about deciding what survived me. Because anyone could destroy what didn’t fit neatly into their world. It took restraint to let it exist and live with it anyway.

The silence behind me shifted. Just enough for instinct to tighten along my spine. I didn’t turn immediately. I already knew who it was.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

His voice was rougher than I remembered. Lower.

I turned slowly. Santino stood in the doorway.