Chapter 5 — The Space I Take

Nina pov

The room is quiet in a way that feels deliberate.

Not empty. Not abandoned. Curated.

I stand just inside the doorway, my hand still wrapped in the strap of the bag Mariela handed me, like if I let go the floor might shift under my feet. The door clicks shut behind me—soft, controlled. No slam. No warning baked into the sound.

I wait for my body to react.

It doesn’t.

The room is larger than anywhere I’ve slept in years. A wide bed with clean white sheets. A chair by the window that looks like it’s meant for sitting, not collecting clothes. Lamps that cast warm light instead of buzzing overhead like an accusation.

I move slowly, cataloging. Habit.

The carpet is thick under my bare feet. The air smells faintly of soap and something woodsy, not layered with old anger. There’s a bathroom through a half-open door—tile, glass, towels folded like someone expects them to be used.

I close my eyes for a second.

Nothing crashes.

No voice follows me down the hall. No hand grabs my arm and asks what I think I’m doing. The silence doesn’t feel like a trap. It feels like a pause.

I set the bag down and sit on the edge of the bed, hands resting on my thighs. My body hums with leftover adrenaline, every nerve still lit, still waiting for the correction.

It doesn’t come.

Instead, something else creeps in—memory, uninvited.

Ricky’s voice, not tonight’s. An older version. Softer.

Come on, he’d said once, smiling like he meant it. You look good. I like it when you wear that.

We’d been standing in front of a mirror that barely fit us both. He’d wrapped his arms around me from behind, chin on my shoulder, and for a moment I’d believed it. Believed the warmth meant something. Believed the way he touched me was proof I wasn’t invisible.

That version of him feels like a stranger now.

The memory shifts, sharpens.

A different night. Different tone.

Jesus, Nina, he’d snapped, shoving my plate away. Do you ever stop eating? No wonder you look like that.

The table. The sound. The way my chest had folded inward like it was trying to protect something small and vital.

I open my eyes.

The room is still here. Still quiet. Still intact.

I stand and go to the bathroom, turning the shower on before I can talk myself out of it. The water takes a second to warm, then spills over me, steady and relentless. I brace for the sting of it against my hand, my arm, the places that remember pressure.

It hurts.

But it’s honest pain. Clean pain.

I let my forehead rest against the tile and breathe until the knot in my chest loosens. Until the steam fills my lungs and pushes the club and the car and the gun a little farther away.

Dante’s face intrudes then, unexpected.

Not the gun. Not the name.

His eyes.

The way he looked at me—not like I was a problem to solve or a thing to manage. Not like he was measuring what he could take. There was something else there. Attention, maybe. Or recognition without familiarity. Like he was seeing me clearly for the first time in a long time.

It unsettles me.

I don’t trust men who see too much.

And yet—when he spoke, my body listened. When he said not from me, something in me believed him before my brain could argue.

I turn the water off and step out, wrapping a towel around myself. In the mirror, my skin is flushed, alive. My body looks like mine again, not an object in someone else’s line of fire.

Back in the room, I dress in clothes that don’t belong to me—soft fabric, loose but not shapeless. They fit without asking me to disappear.

I sit on the bed again, this time farther back, testing the mattress. It gives under my weight and holds. Doesn’t creak. Doesn’t complain.

I think of Dante standing by the car, stepping back instead of forward. Of the way he said my name like it was already known, already accounted for.

Something about him pulls at me. Not desire—at least not that. Curiosity, maybe. Or the dangerous kind of calm that comes from standing too close to something powerful and realizing it isn’t aimed at you.

Not yet.

I lie back and stare at the ceiling, counting my breaths.

For the first time in a long time, no one tells me to be quiet.

And I don’t know what to do with that.

I wake up because my body is ready to.

That realization comes first, drifting up slowly, like something cautious testing the surface. No noise pulled me out of sleep. No sharp sound. No voice. No sense that I’ve already done something wrong without knowing what it was.

I lie still for a moment, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the familiar tightness in my chest to catch up.

It doesn’t.

Light filters in through the curtains, pale and clean. Morning light. The kind I forgot existed. My limbs feel heavy, warm, like they were allowed to rest instead of staying coiled all night.

I slept.

The thought feels dangerous. Indulgent.

I sit up slowly, half-expecting the room to change its mind. It doesn’t. Everything is still where it was. The bed. The chair. The quiet.

I shower, dress in the clothes laid out for me—simple, soft, nothing that asks me to disappear—and follow the faint smell of coffee down the stairs.

The house feels different in daylight. Less imposing. Still large, still deliberate, but no longer watching me back. Sunlight cuts across dark wood floors, warming them. The air hums with something low and steady, like the house knows how to hold its breath without suffocating.

I pause at the bottom of the stairs.

The kitchen is open, wide. Stone counters. A long table. Windows that look out onto trees instead of walls. Someone is already there.

Dante stands at the counter, sleeves rolled to his forearms, dark hair slightly mussed in a way that looks unintentional. He’s holding a mug in one hand, the other resting on the counter like he’s anchoring himself there.

He looks… different.

Not softer. Just quieter.

He turns when he hears me.

No surprise. No tension. Just acknowledgment.

“Morning,” he says.

The word sounds strange coming from him. Neutral. Unclaimed.

“Morning,” I answer, my voice rough with disuse.

He nods once, like that’s enough ceremony for now. “Coffee?”

“Yes,” I say immediately, then stop myself. “If that’s okay.”

Something flickers across his face—almost a smile, but not quite. More like understanding.

“It is,” he says.

He pours without asking how I take it and sets the mug down on the counter between us, leaving space. Always space. I step closer and wrap my hands around it. The warmth seeps into my fingers, grounding.

For a moment, we stand there in silence.

It’s not awkward. Not heavy.

Just… new.

“You slept,” he says. Not a question.

I nod. “I did.”

“Good.”

One word. No follow-up. No conditions attached.

I glance around the kitchen, then back at him. “Is this… normal for you?” I ask before I can stop myself. “Having people here.”

“No,” he says easily. “It isn’t.”

The honesty catches me off guard.

“Why me?” The question slips out before I can soften it.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he moves to the table and pulls out a chair—not for me, but for himself—then sits, watching me like I’m free to choose where I land.

I take the chair across from him.

“You didn’t ask to be here,” he says finally. “That matters.”

I let that sit.

“And,” he adds, “you’re not invisible.”

The words hit harder than anything Ricky ever said.

I look down at my hands, at the way they rest on the table without being told where to go. “He made me feel like I was,” I admit quietly.

“I know.”

I look up sharply. “You know.”

He meets my gaze without flinching. “I saw how he treated you.”

“How long?” I ask.

His jaw tightens. Just slightly. “Long enough.”

There’s something in his tone—control layered over restraint—that makes it clear he’s choosing his words carefully.

I take a sip of coffee, buying myself a second. “You said I could leave,” I say.

“Yes.”

“Eventually.”

“Yes.”

“But not now.”

“No.”

I exhale slowly. “You’re very clear about what you won’t do,” I say. “You don’t touch. You don’t threaten. You don’t lie.”

“And?” he prompts.

“And I’m trying to figure out what you will do.”

A corner of his mouth lifts. This time, it almost reaches his eyes.

“I’ll keep you safe,” he says. “I’ll give you space. And I’ll tell you the truth when it matters.”

“That sounds like rules,” I say.

“They are.”

I nod. “I can work with rules.”

“I thought you might.”

Something passes between us then—not warmth, not trust, but recognition. Like we’re both aware this is the first conversation that isn’t about survival.

He stands and moves toward the stove. “Eat,” he says, gesturing to the plate already waiting. Eggs. Toast. Fruit. Ordinary. Abundant.

I hesitate.

He notices. Of course he does.

“No one here keeps score,” he says calmly. “Nothing you do at this table costs you anything.”

I sit back and pick up my fork.

The food tastes like food. Not punishment. Not reward.

I look at him across the table, at the man who took me without touching me, who watches without consuming, who holds power like it’s something to be managed, not flaunted.

Something about him draws me in. Not in a reckless way. In the way gravity does—quiet, unavoidable.

I don’t trust it yet.

But for the first time in a long time, I let myself take up the space in front of me.

And no one tells me to shrink.