CHAPTER 6
1526 Words
ARIA'S POV
The rain starts just after midnight. I notice it because Dante opens the window. I’m sitting on the couch, knees tucked to my chest, rereading the same page of a book, he gave me, for the third time without absorbing a single word. The room smells faintly of coffee and something metallic I can’t name. When the window opens, cool air spills in, carrying the sound of rain hitting concrete far below.
“You’ll catch a cold,” I say.
“I won’t,” he replies.
I watch him stand there, one hand braced against the frame. He looks less like a threat in this light.
“You could sit,” I add. He hesitates. Then he crosses the room and sits at the opposite end of the couch.
The rain grows heavier, a steady rhythm that fills the silence between us.
“I used to love storms,” I say suddenly.
He glances at me. “Used to?”
“They felt honest,” I shrug. “Loud. Unapologetic.”
“And now?”
“Now they remind me of how quickly things can change.”
He nods, as if that makes perfect sense.
“Your hands stopped shaking,” he says quietly.
I blink. “What?”
“The first night,” he explains. “You couldn’t keep them still.”
I look down at my fingers curled around the edge of the book.
“I didn’t realize.”
“I did.” Something about that tightens my chest.
“You notice everything,” I murmur.
“It’s my job.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “That’s not what this is.”
He doesn’t argue. The rain thunders harder, sudden and heavy. The lights flicker. I gasp softly without meaning to — and before I can process it, Dante’s hand is on my wrist. The contact sends a sharp awareness through me, like static under my skin.
“Sorry,” he says immediately, loosening his touch but not pulling away. “I thought—”
“It’s okay,” I say quickly.
I don’t pull away either.
We both freeze. His thumb shifts, brushing lightly against my pulse. My breath stutters. I look up. He’s already watching me.
“I don’t like how fast this feels,” I whisper.
His jaw tightens. “Me neither.”
“But you feel it too,” I say.
“Yes.”
I swallow. “We shouldn’t.”
“I know.”
Neither of us moves.
“You scare me,” I admit softly. His hand stills completely.
“Because of what I might do,” he says
“Because of what you make me want,” I correct.
His breath deepens. He shifts slightly — closer. Not enough to touch more than our hands already are.
“I don’t want to be another man who takes something from you,” he says quietly.
“And I don’t want to feel like I’m asking for permission to feel that way,” I reply.
Our gazes lock. I notice the faint scar near his eyebrow. The tension in his shoulders. The way he’s holding himself perfectly still, like movement would shatter something fragile between us.
“I don’t know how to do this safely,” he murmurs.
“I don’t think safe is an option anymore,” I whisper.
He leans in slowly. Giving me time to stop him, I don’t.
His breath brushes my cheek. My heart is pounding so loudly I’m sure he can hear it. His forehead rests against mine, closer than we should be.
“If I cross this line,” he says quietly, “I won’t pretend it doesn’t change things.”
I close my eyes.
“Then don’t pretend,” I whisper. His lips hover a breath away from mine.
Then—
A sharp knock at the door. We sprang apart like we’ve been burned. There's an awkward silence between us.
Dante stands immediately, turning away, his back rigid.
“Stay here,” he says, voice controlled again. The door opens. I hear voices murmur. Must've been the men I had seen that night. I press my fingers to my lips, my pulse still racing. Nothing happened, but it seemed like everything did. When Dante returns, his expression is unreadable. And then he leaves the room, shutting the door behind him. I'm sure of one thing, if we cross that line again…there won’t be anything left to stop us.
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I couldn't sleep. I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, listening to the rain taper off into silence, replaying the space between Dante’s mouth and mine until it feels like something I imagined. Almost doesn’t feel real.
Almost doesn’t explain the way my body reacted — the way my breath caught, the way I leaned in without realizing I was moving at all. I roll onto my side and press my face into the pillow. This isn’t who I’m supposed to be. I was the girl who planned. The girl who chose safety. The girl who believed love grew from stability, not tension. And yet my chest tightens.
I stood up quickly, padding quietly toward the window.
I hate that my fear and comfort come from the same place now.
In the bathroom mirror, my eyes look darker. More awake. Like someone who’s stepped into a story she doesn’t recognize.
“You’re not in love,” I tell my reflection softly. “You’re confused.” That’s reasonable, I guess. I cling to that like a lifeline.
When morning comes, it brings clarity.
Or at least the illusion of it. Dante is already in the kitchen, coffee steaming in his mug. He looks up when I enter, his expression carefully neutral.
“Morning,” he says.
“Morning.”
Our voices sound normal. He doesn’t mention last night. Neither do I. We sit at opposite ends of the table, the space between us measured again.
“I’m going to review security today,” he says. “There’s movement I don’t like.”
“Sebastian?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Do you think he knows where I am?” I ask.
“No,” Dante replies immediately. Then, more carefully, “Not yet.”
I nod. Part of me is relieved. The other part… isn’t. I'm scared, wondering what that man is capable of doing.
After breakfast, I wander the house, restless. I stop at the bookshelf, my fingers trailing along spines I haven’t touched. Everything here feels curated. Intentional.
I find a room I haven’t been in before — smaller, quieter. There’s a desk by the window, sunlight spilling across scattered papers. One of them has my name on it. I shouldn’t look, but I do. It’s a risk assessment. Old. Dated years back.
Subject displays strong attachment tendencies.
Low awareness of external threat.
High compliance indicators.
My stomach twists. Is that how he saw me? I drop the paper like it’s burned me.
“Aria?” I turn. Dante stands in the doorway, his gaze dropping to the papers, then back to my face.
“I shouldn’t have left those out,” he says.
“Is that how you think of me?” I ask quietly. “As a profile?”
His jaw tightens.
“It was never meant to define you.”
“But it did,” I say. “Before I ever had a chance.”
He steps inside slowly, careful.
“You’re not wrong to be upset,” he says. “But don’t mistake preparation for judgment.”
I fold my arms around myself.
“I don’t know what I am to you,” I admit. “Sometimes I feel like a responsibility. Sometimes like a liability. Sometimes like something you don’t want anyone else to touch.” His gaze darkens.
“And sometimes?” he asks. I swallow.
“Sometimes I feel like all these is a mistake you don’t regret.” The words hang between us. He doesn’t deny them.
“That’s why this scares you,” he says softly.
“It scares me because I don’t know which version of you I’ll get,” I reply. “The man who steps back… or the man who watches me like I might disappear.”
“I’m both,” he admits. “And I don’t know how to separate them yet.” Honesty again. It's not soothing at all.
“I need space,” I say.
His shoulders tense — just slightly.
“How much?” he asks.
I hesitate.
“I don’t know,” I answer. “Enough to hear my own thoughts.”
He nods slowly.
“I can give you that,” he says. “Within reason.”
As he leaves the room, I sink into the chair by the window. My chest aches. I don’t just miss my old life.
I miss the clarity of knowing who the danger was. Now it feels like everything is just layered. Protection and control. Fear and comfort. Attraction and alarm. And somewhere in this confusion, is something fragile is forming. Something that could either save me or ruin me.
- Writer
