The Weight He Claimed のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 11 - チャプター 20

Nina povRicky is awake when I get home.That’s the first thing I notice.The apartment is quiet, lights low, the TV off. He’s sitting on the couch, leaning back, one arm stretched along the backrest like he’s been there for a while. Waiting. But when he looks up at me, he smiles.“There you are,” he says.Relief washes through me. Warm, immediate.“Hey,” I say, kicking my shoes off by the door. My head feels light, pleasant. I smell like someone else’s perfume and cheap wine and night air. “You’re still up.”“Of course I am.” He stands and crosses t

I decide before I say it.That’s how most dangerous things start—with certainty settling quietly, without ceremony. Nina is in the living room, perched on the edge of the couch, my shirt loose on her frame, the fabric falling in a way that makes my attention snag and hold. It shouldn’t matter. I’ve seen bodies my whole life. I’ve wanted plenty of women.This is different.It isn’t hunger that hits first. It’s awareness. The way she occupies space now—not shrinking, not apologizing, just there. Her legs tucked beneath her, bare feet brushing the rug, toes flexing absentmindedly as if she’s grounding herself. There’s color in her face this morning. Not confidence exactly&md

Nina povMariela makes tea like it’s a tactic.Not rushed. Not fussy. Water poured at the exact moment it needs to be, leaves steeped just long enough to be useful. She sets the mug in front of me and gives me a look that suggests this is as much comfort as I’m going to get tonight.“So,” I say, wrapping my hands around the warmth. “What happened?”She leans against the counter, arms crossed. Casual. Too casual.“Nothing you need to worry about.”I huff a quiet laugh. “That’s not an answer.”“It’s the only one you’re getting.”

Dante povThe drive back from the hospital feels longer than it should.Same streets. Same lights. But the distance stretches, elastic, like the city itself is trying to keep us suspended in the space between before and after.Nina sits beside me, quiet. Not fragile—sealed. Her hands rest in her lap, fingers loosely intertwined, knuckles pale where she presses without realizing it. The glow from passing streetlights slides over her face in brief, broken flashes. In each one, I catch a different version of her: the woman who stood unflinching in my office, the girl who sat beside a hospital bed and said goodbye to a man who never really knew how to keep her.I don’t reach for her.That’s deliberate.

Dante povJose keeps talking, but his words blur into structure without substance.Safe house. Rotation. Windows of exposure.His voice is steady, calm in the way men get when they’re describing something they’ve already accepted as necessary. He’s selling inevitability.I don’t look at him.I look at Nina.She stands near the counter, weight shifted onto one hip, arms loose at her sides like she doesn’t trust them not to tremble if she crosses them. The light from the kitchen