SERAFINA
The Chicago air hits differently at night—colder, sharper, like it's trying to cut through the careful walls I've spent years building. Lorenzo's hand rests on the small of my back as we walk through the hotel lobby, and I don't pull away. A month ago, I would have. A week ago, maybe. Now? His touch feels like the only solid thing in the world that keeps shifting beneath my feet.
"Fourth floor," he murmurs, his voice low enough that only I can hear. "Corner suite. Two exits."
Always thinking tactically. It's one of the things I've come to—not love, I won't call it that yet—respect him. We think the same way. Survival first. Trust second. Everything else is negotiable.
The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime that sounds too cheerful for what we're here to do. Find Marco
