“Then what are you doing?”
He opens his hands, those huge scarred hands that have held me like something sacred and broken men who threatened me and repaired the bakery with such quiet devotion that I let myself believe actions were enough. “I am trying not to lie.”
“That’s noble. Very on-brand.”
His eyes flash. “Do not do that.”
“Do what?”
“Make sarcasm a knife because you are afraid.”
“I learned from the best. You make silence a bunker.”
The words hit home. I see it. His mouth tightens, his shoulders locking down harder.
“Fine,” he says. “You want truth? Yes, it terrifies me.”
“Living with me?”
“Wanting it.”
My breath catches despite myself.
He steps closer, but slowly, cautiously, as if approaching an injured animal. “You think I hesitated because I do not want this. You are wrong. I hesitated because I want it so badly I do not know what to do with the wanting.”
My heart stumbles.
Do not listen, the hurt part of me says. Do not let pretty words patch a hole they will only reopen later.
Kauss’s voice drops. “I have not belonged somewhere in years. I have slept in tunnels, barracks, transports, ruins, alleys, detention cells, and places with doors I never trusted. Your apartment is not just a room. It is you. It is warmth and memory and morning and a future I do not know how to hold without crushing.”
Tears spill before I can stop them.
I wipe them away angrily. “That sounds a lot like no.”
Pain moves across his face. “It is not no.”
“It isn’t yes either.”
Silence.
That is the thing about hope. It does not need much to live, but it dies fast when silence gets heavy enough.
I nod again, smaller this time. “Right.”
“Evie—”
“Please leave.”
He takes one step back as if I shoved him.
The apartment feels suddenly too small for both of us, too full of garlic and rain and everything we almost had. The sauce on the stove pops, sending a red drop onto the burner with a tiny hiss. I turn away automatically to lower the heat because apparently heartbreak still comes with practical concerns.
Behind me, Kauss says, “I do not want to leave you.”
I grip the stove handle. “Then you should have figured out whether you wanted to stay before I had to ask.”
“That is not fair.”
