The air in the house was thick with unspoken tension. Dante and I had been avoiding each other since the argument. Every time our paths crossed, it felt like walking on eggshells, trying not to crack the fragile silence hanging between us. I didn't know what hurt more—his cold words or the fact that I actually believed them.
The morning after the fight, I found myself making breakfast. Unlike other days, I didn't wake up to Dante cooking. 'Maybe he just needed a break,' I thought, but deep down, I knew it was because of the fight we had. I left him some toasts on the counter, not knowing if he would care to eat them or not. I picked up my plate of toasts, poured myself a cup of tea and just as I was about to head back to my room, Dante walked into the kitchen. We both froze, caught off guard by each other's presence.
He hesitated at the doorway, his eyes darting from me to the table. "Morning," he said, his voice carefully neutral.
I mumbled a greeting, my hands nervously gripping my mug. Dante walked to the counter, his movements slower than usual. I could feel his gaze on me, but I kept my eyes fixed on my cup.
"Did you sleep well?" he finally asked, his tone softer than I expected.
"Yeah," I lied. The truth was that I tossed and turned all night, his words echoing in my mind. He wasn't my saviour or lover, he would never fall in love with me, that wasn't how this agreement works.
Dante picked up a slice of toast, his fingers brushing against mine as I moved to grab a napkin. The touch was brief, but it sent a spark through me, one that I tried desperately to ignore. He pulled his hand back quickly, almost like he hadn't meant to touch me at all.
"Thanks for breakfast," he said quietly, and I just nodded, slipping past him to retreat to my room before I could say something I'd regret.
Throughout the day, we continued our awkward dance, sharing the same space without really acknowledging each other. I could sense Dante's presence even when I couldn't see him. At one point, I caught a glimpse of him in the hallway, scrolling through his phone, and when he looked up and saw me, he quickly looked away. .
By evening, I was sitting on the living room couch, mindlessly watching TV, when Dante came in and sat at the opposite end, maintaining a respectable distance. We stayed that way for a while—silent, watching whatever was on, not really paying attention. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Dante's shoulders tense up whenever I moved or shifted positions.
At one point, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and muttered something under his breath. I pretended not to hear it, but curiosity got the best of me. "Did you say something?" I asked, my tone more stern than I intended.
He looked at me, his expression unreadable "Just... wondering if you're okay."
I instantly rose to my defense. "Why wouldn't I be?"
He opened his mouth to respond but seemed to think better of it. Instead, he leaned back again, running a hand through his hair. "Alright"
Annoyance prickled at me. Why did he care now? Why did he have to look at me like that, with those tired, worried eyes? I couldn't stand it. Before I could stop myself, I blurted, "If you're just doing your duty, you don't have to force yourself to check on me. I'm fine."
Dante looked taken aback, but he didn't argue. Instead, he nodded once, and the conversation was over. The silence after felt louder than any argument we'd had. I wanted to say more, to call him out for how much his words hurt me, but I didn't want to give him that satisfaction.
The next few days passed in much the same way—awkward greetings, careful avoidance, and occasional glimpses of his quiet attempts to break the ice. He'd leave a cup of tea on the counter, just the way I liked it. He'd take out the trash without me asking. Once, he even tried to fold my laundry, and I caught him looking completely out of his depth with one of my sweaters.
I hated how my heart softened despite myself. I wanted to stay mad, to make him feel the sting of his words, but Dante wasn't making it easy. One evening, I found a note slipped under my door: "Sorry for being an ass. Can we talk?"
I didn't reply, but when I came down for dinner, he was already in the kitchen, setting the table. He looked at me, waiting for a reaction, and I just sighed, sitting down without a word. We ate in silence, but this time, it felt more contemplative than tense. After a while, Dante cleared his throat.
"I didn't mean to make you feel... like you're just a responsibility," he said slowly, not meeting my eyes. "I just don't know how to handle... this."
I wanted to ask what he meant by "this," but I stayed quiet, letting him struggle with his words.
"It's... complicated. I promised to take care of you, and I take that seriously. But it's not just because of the deal. I guess I just... don't want you to feel alone."
The honesty in his voice caught me off guard. I didn't know how to respond, so I just nodded, focusing on the food instead of his gaze. For the first time since the argument, I felt like we were on the verge of something real—something that neither of us wanted to acknowledge just yet.
Dante didn't push further, and I was grateful for it. We finished eating, and he lingered, cleaning up despite my insistence that I could handle it. I knew he was trying to make up for his earlier behavior, but I wasn't ready to forgive him. Not yet.
When he finally left the kitchen, I found myself thinking about the way his shoulders had slumped, like he was carrying more than he was willing to share. As much as I hated to admit it, part of me wanted to know what was really going on in his head. And maybe—just maybe—I wanted to believe that there was more to this arrangement than just practicality.