Page 69 of He Should Be Mine

Reason one, it can’t last. Dario’s not mine. This moment, this kindness, it’s borrowed time. Sooner or later, he’ll go. Or Rick will pull me away with a tug on the leash.

Reason two, I don’t deserve this.Not the care, not the softness. Not someone staying just because they want to.

Reason three, he doesn’t know who I really am. Not the bad parts. Not the desperate, ugly things I’ve done to survive. If he knew, he’d leave. He should.

Reason four, I belong to Rick.My time. My body. My metaphorical signature on a contract that Dario can’t break with strong arms or good intentions. And what would Dario even be risking, trying to save me? His life? His position? Everything?

I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling, swallowing against the raw burn of my throat.

But the worst part, the cruelest truth of all, is a fact that is going to undo me.

It’s the fact that Dario is kind.Not just in the way people say, like it’s interchangeable with ‘nice.’ No. He’s truly kind. He notices things. He doesn’t push. He doesn’t ask for anything back. And I have no defenses against that.

I’ve been admired. Desired. Bought. Owned.

But this? This is something I don’t know how to survive.

Because love, real love, the kind that sees you sick and weak and still stays… that could break me.

And if it does, I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to put myself back together again.

I curl in on myself a little more, as if I can make the feeling smaller by shrinking around it. As if I can protect the soft, unraveling thing inside me just by hiding it from the light.

Love. It’s such a simple word. Four letters. People write songs about it, get it tattooed on their skin, say it like it’s a gift or a triumph. But for me, it’s a warning. A risk.

One of my foster mothers once told me,“Love is for people who can afford to fall apart.”

She said it with the same clipped, factual tone she used when explaining how to clean sheets or fake tears. Like it was just another rule of survival.“You want someone too badly, you’ll give them the knife.” “Don’t get attached. Pretty boys don’t stay pretty if they’re stupid.”

I believed her. Still do, mostly.

So I never let myself want like this. I flirt, I charm, I play the part. I’ve spent years making sure I’m adored but not known. Desired but not truly seen. That’s the safest way. The smartest.

But now here I am, aching for someone who’s literally in the same room. And this isn’t fire. It’s not obsession. It’s not some sweeping opera or a scandalous affair.

It’s quiet. It’s soup on the stove. His hand on my back while I cough. The way he rarely saysYou look terrible,even when I do. It’s knowing the exact sound of his footsteps without even trying.

Oh fuck, this is love, isn’t it?

Not the fantasy. Not the drama. Just this unbearable gentleness.

And it’s terrifying.

Because I know how to protect myself against cruelty. Against violence. Against people like Rick, who show you exactly what they are and then make you thank them for it.

But this? This slow, careful kindness? This thing that asks me to hope?

I don’t know how to guard against that.

My eyes sting. I blink hard and fast and focus on a tear in the blanket, like if I concentrate hard enough, I’ll forget the soft, awful truth. That if this ends, if I lose him, I don’t think I’ll survive it.

Because now I know what it feels like to be seen. Cared for. Sat with through the worst of it.

And going back to being alone, pretending I don’t want more?

That would be a different kind of death.

I draw in as big a breath I can manage with my ruined throat. I need to pull myself together. Over in the kitchen, the kettle clicks and it’s the distraction I need.