After my conversation with Noah, I couldn't get his words out of my head. Maybe he was right. Maybe I needed to stop letting Dante's actions dictate my emotions. If he wanted to keep me at arm's length, fine. I'd keep my distance too. I had my own life to focus on, my own happiness to prioritize.
The next morning, I woke up with a new resolve. I went through my routine without waiting for Dante to join me for breakfast. Usually, I'd make some for him and leave it out on the counter, but today, I just fixed my own meal and ate quietly at the kitchen counter. When Dante eventually came downstairs, he paused, seemingly caught off guard by the empty space where his meal supposedly would have been.
He glanced at me, a hint of confusion in his eyes. "Morning," he said, his tone unsure.
"Morning," I replied, keeping my voice light but indifferent. I didn't ask if he slept well or bother with small talk. Instead, I picked up my plate and washed it in the sink without lingering.
Dante hesitated before making his own breakfast, occasionally glancing my way. I could sense his curiosity, maybe even a hint of frustration, but I didn't give him any reason to question me. If he wanted distance, I'd give it to him.
As the days went on, I continued to embrace this newfound mindset. I stopped going out of my way to check on him or to make sure he was comfortable. If he needed something, he could ask. If he wanted to talk, he could initiate it. I was done bending over backward to make him comfortable while I was left feeling neglected.
Though the doctor had advised that I keep off from work to rest, I had gotten tired of my stay at home routine. I drove myself to work, unmotivated yet determined to keep myself busy. At work, I focused on my tasks without constantly wondering where Dante was or if he was watching me. I kept my interactions with him professional and brief, and when he occasionally came into my office or tried to start a conversation, I'd politely excuse myself to continue working.
That afternoon, while I was sorting through some files, Dante came into my office. He had made it a habit to barge in whenever without knocking. "You know you shouldn't be here right?"
I nodded, not taking my eyes off my computer. "A few days in wouldn't hurt."
He stood still in front of me, and I could feel his gaze on me. "The doctor doesn't approve," he finally said, but his voice was softer. I didn't respond.
When I glanced up after a few moments, I caught him staring, his expression unreadable. But I refused to let it affect me. I just offered a polite smile and turned back to my work.
That evening, as I was leaving, I spotted Noah standing by my car at the parking lot. He greeted me with an easy smile, and we fell into casual conversation. It felt nice to laugh about something as simple as his failed attempt at baking the previous night. When Dante walked out and saw us talking, his steps faltered, and his gaze hardened, but I ignored it. Noah was a friend—someone who was casually genuine about my well-being.
Back at the house, Dante was quieter than usual. I didn't bother trying to coax him into talking. Instead, I took a long shower and spent the evening on the balcony, enjoying the cool breeze and the city lights. When I heard the door open, I glanced back to see Dante standing there, his hands in his pockets.
"You've been spending a lot of time with that guy," he remarked, trying to sound casual but failing.
I arched my brow. "His name is Noah. And yeah, he's nice to talk to."
Dante's jaw clenched. "You barely know him."
I shrugged. "Sometimes it's easier to talk to someone who isn't so complicated."
He didn't respond, just stood there, tension radiating off him. But I didn't feel the need to soothe his worries. He'd made it clear that what we had was just a deal. So why did it bother him that I was getting to know someone else?
I stayed outside until he went back inside, my heart aching a little less than I expected. Maybe this new approach was working. Maybe it was time I stopped holding onto something that I couldn't control.
The next morning, Dante was already up by the time I got downstairs. He had made breakfast—something simple but thoughtful, eggs and toast with a pot of coffee brewing. I hesitated for a moment, unsure if this was another one of his attempts to bridge the gap.
"Good morning," he said, sounding almost cautious.
"Morning," I replied, keeping my tone light. I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table, purposefully not commenting on the food.
Dante cleared his throat. "I made enough for both of us."
"Thanks," I muttered, taking a sip of the coffee. It was stronger than I liked, but I didn't bother to mention it..
Halfway through breakfast, Dante spoke up again. "I've been thinking about what you said."
My eyes flicked up to meet his, but I stayed quiet, waiting for him to continue.
"About how it's easier to talk to someone who isn't complicated. You are right," he admitted. "But me being complicated doesn't mean I don't care."
His words caught me off guard, but I didn't let my guard down. "Caring doesn't mean pushing people away," I replied.
He looked frustrated, running a hand through his hair. "It's not that simple."
"It never is with you," I whispered, more to myself than to him. He heard it, though, and I saw the flash of guilt in his eyes. I didn't give him a chance to respond. I just picked up my plate and walked to the sink, trying to compose myself. Nothing was ever easy with him and I wasn't going to make the situation easy for him either.