Page 54 of Fire and Silk

For a second, my heart stops—then lurches. That’s the only way I can describe it. Like a bird slamming into glass.

He fills the doorway, chest rising fast beneath a wrinkled white shirt. His hair is tousled like he’s run his hands through it many times.

Strong enough to carry a world, but right now he looks like he’s barely holding up his own.

I stare at him like I’m seeing something impossible. I’m not sure if I’ve died and this is a kindness my mind’s given me on the way out.

He crosses the room in four strides and sits down on the edge of the bed before I can even flinch. His arms go around me, warm and crushing, pulling me straight to his chest. His scent hits me first—salt and clean cotton and something faintly bitter, like stress left long in the bloodstream.

“I was so scared,” he whispers into my hair. His hand strokes down the back of my head, gently, over and over. “Lira, I—Jesus. I thought I’d lost you.”

The sound of his voice almost breaks me.

I clench my teeth, swallow the sob in my throat, and push.

“Don’t.” My voice comes out ragged.

I shove him hard, both hands on his chest, and he lets go. I throw off the blanket and swing my legs off the bed, bracing on the frame even though the floor tilts beneath me.

He reaches for me again. “You’re weak, don’t—”

“Leave me the fuck alone!” I scream it so loud my throat scrapes raw.

His hands drop like I slapped him.

“Lira, please.”

I turn toward him, and something inside me cracks all the way open.

“You left me,” I say, and it’s not a whisper. It’s a wound. “You were all I had. You knew what she meant to me, and you still left. You left me to rot and die, and you didn’t come back. Not when I needed you. Not when the world fell apart. You just disappeared. And now you show up?”

My voice breaks so violently it splinters the air.

“How dare you!”

He doesn’t speak.

He just pulls me into his arms again.

I fight him. I curse at him in Italian, spit and fury, nails dragging across the cotton at his back. “Vaffanculo, figlio di puttana! Bastardo! Dove sei stato? Perché mi hai lasciata?!”

But he doesn’t let go.

No matter how hard I push, I can’t break his grip. He holds me tighter. Steadier. As if I’ll vanish if he doesn’t.

So, I stop fighting.

And I collapse into him, sobbing until the tears drown the words.

My fingers curl into his shirt.

My head falls against his shoulder.

And I whisper, barely audible through the wreckage of my voice:

“Why did you leave me?”

He’s still holding me when my body stops shaking. My face is damp, and the heat between us is stifling. My fists are still curled into his shirt, like I’m afraid that if I let go, he’ll disappear again.