Page 18 of Daisy

"You didn't need to step in," he said finally.

"Neither did you."

"Tommy's under my protection."

"Didn't know." I shrugged. "Wouldn't have mattered anyway."

"No?" Dante's head tilted slightly. "Why?"

"Because they were hurting him. That's enough."

Dante studied me for a long moment, something shifting in his expression. "You fight?"

"When I have to."

"Want to spar sometime? Properly, I mean. Not just breaking up bullies."

I considered it. Dante was bigger than me, probably stronger, definitely more experienced. But there was something about him that intrigued me. A control I recognized but couldn't quite understand.

"Sure," I said.

That became our routine. After chores, after homework, after the staff thought we were settling in for the night, we'd find an empty room and go at each other.

It was the closest thing to friendship I'd ever had.

Dante fought like he did everything else—controlled, calculated, always thinking three moves ahead. I fought like the feral thing I was becoming—all instinct and fury and the bone-deep knowledge that losing meant something worse than pain.

We were good for each other, in a twisted way. Dante taught me technique, strategy, how to channel rage into something useful. I taught him what it felt like to fight someone who wouldn't back down, who'd rather break than bend.

"You're going to get yourself killed someday," he told me after a particularly brutal session. We were both bloody, both breathing hard, both grinning despite ourselves.

"Maybe," I agreed. "But I'll go down swinging."

"There are smarter ways to solve problems than violence."

"Yeah? Like what?"

"Like making sure the violence happens on your terms instead of theirs."

I didn't understand what he meant then. Thought he was talking about fighting strategy, about picking your battles and timing your attacks.

It wasn't until years later that I realized he was talking about becoming part of the system instead of fighting against it.

We went different directions when we aged out. Dante found structure, purpose, a place within the machine that had tried to break us both. I found underground rings and empty apartments and the kind of life that burns bright and fast.

We lost touch. Different worlds, different choices.

But I never forgot what he taught me about control. About channeling rage into something useful.

"Sounds like you two were close,"August says softly.

"For a while." I finish loading the dishwasher, trying to organize thoughts that feel too big for words. "But we wanted different things. He wanted to fix the system from the inside. I wanted to burn it down."

"And now?"

"Now I just want to protect what's mine." I turn to face him, taking in the gentle curve of his mouth, the way his curls catch the kitchen light. "You changed everything for me, August.Before you, I thought violence was the only language I spoke fluently. But with you..."

"What?"