I look at the grain in the wood because looking at either of them might break the seal on something I need contained.
"He held me down and broke my ribs while explaining, in a conversational tone, that he was doing it because he loved me." My lungs tighten, but the words keep coming. "He drove me to the hospital afterward and told the doctors I fell down the stairs. They believed him because he was polite and articulate, because who the hell suspects that man?"
Cole's hand finds my free one and holds. I let him.
"He has spent eight years rehearsing the role of reformed father," I say, "and now he's performing it in the lobby of my workplace."
The refrigerator kicks on.
Dante's knuckles are white on the table.
"I'm staying," I say. "Part of me, the part that was thirteen and woke up in a hospital, is screaming at me to run." I breathe in for four. Hold for four. Out for four.
"I'm staying. I'm filing the protective order. Richard's legal strategy, Adrian's security call, Clara's Title IX report, Gio's research. Every resource in this room."
"In the open," Dante says.
His voice is low, rough at the edges, like the words cost him skin.
"In the open."
Cole squeezes my hand.
Dante stands from the table and crosses the room without saying anything. When he kneels in front of the couch, my next inhale catches halfway.
Then his forehead drops to my lap.
My hand freezes above his hair.
For half a second, the weight of a man this close to my body sends the wrong signal through the wrong years, and my skin forgets who is touching me. My ribs remember another room. Another floor. David saying love while bone gave under his hands.
Dante doesn't move. Cole's hand stays wrapped around mine.
That is what brings me back.
I lower my hand into Dante's hair and hold him there.
Both of them are on the floor. Both of them below me, still enough for me to choose the next breath.
"Monday," I say. "Richard files. Gio's research goes to the DA. Adrian's campus security is already in place. Clara's Title IX report files in the morning."
Dante lifts his head and looks at me.
"And if the parole violation sticks," he says, "he goes back to Springfield and the protective order keeps him there."
"And if it doesn't stick?"
The kitchen goes still around the question.
"Then we figure it out," Cole says. "Together. All three of us. In the open."
Dante's jaw works. The tendon in his neck pulls tight, his fingers pressing white crescents into his own palms.
Dante's hand flexes near his pocket. Marco's people are already watching him, following him into buildings and sending texts while he walks back out.
"Together," Dante says.
The word grinds out of him like a concession.
