ONE FIFTY EIGHT
I didn’t know what was going through his head. Didn’t know if he was regretting this, or if he was seeing something else, something from before, something from the kind of past that left wounds no one else could see. I wanted to ask. Wanted to reach out. Wanted to tell him I wasn’t okay either. But instead, I just sat there, watching him, feeling my throat tighten, my eyes burn, before finally, finally, hesitating for just a second and then whispering…
“Dom.”
The silence sat between us like a living thing, thick, suffocating, heavy enough to press against my ribs and squeeze. My whisper had barely faded from the air, and yet Dominic hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken. He just stood there, shoulders slightly hunched, head tilted down, his gaze fixed on the floor as if whatever he was seeing there was too important to look away from. The dim light from the television flickered against his features, catching the sharp angle of his jaw, the bridge of his nose, the curve of his lips, lips that parted, just slightly, like he might say something, then pressed together again in silence. The glow wasn’t strong enough to illuminate everything, but when he finally lifted his head, my breath caught.
His eyes.
Even in the low light, I could see it, the glassiness, the unshed tears clinging to his lashes, the way his pupils seemed just a little too wide, his expression caught somewhere between exhaustion and something much heavier, much darker. I felt it like a physical ache, deep in my chest, something twisting, curling, wrapping itself around my heart and squeezing until I couldn’t breathe. But I didn’t move. I didn’t reach for him, even though every muscle in my body screamed for it. I just swallowed against the lump in my throat, my fingers tightening against the fabric of my sleeves, nails pressing into my skin. The room was cool, too cool. I shuddered before I could stop myself, folding in tighter, pressing my knees to my chest, tucking my chin down.
Dominic didn’t say anything. He just inhaled, slow and deep, before exhaling through his nose, like he was trying to steady himself. And then, finally, his body seemed to give out.
He slumped onto the couch—the exact same spot Gael had vacated just minutes before—his head lowering, his shoulders sagging. He sat there, utterly still, staring at the space in front of him, the weight of something invisible pressing down on him, keeping him there. Seconds passed. Then longer. The silence stretched, unbearably thick, so long that I began to wonder if he’d even heard me, if he was going to speak at all, if he had simply disappeared somewhere inside himself where I couldn’t reach.
And then, quietly, almost so soft that I had to strain to hear, he spoke.
"Every time I look at him," his voice was low, barely more than a murmur, "all I see is you."
The words landed like a physical blow, knocking the air from my lungs, leaving me winded and trembling. I stared at him, heart pounding, lips parting as if to respond, but no words came. What could I possibly say to that? My chest ached, something sharp and deep cutting into me. I thought of Adam. Thought of his face, his eyes, the way he looked up at me earlier in the hallway, uncertain, hesitant. And I wanted to say that Dominic was wrong. That Adam didn’t look like me at all.
Because all I saw was him.
His green eyes, the same shape, the same depth. His brown hair, the same shade, the same waves. The curve of his mouth, the sharpness of his jaw. His skin, his stance, his everything: he was Dominic, through and through, no matter how much he insisted otherwise. And that had been the hardest thing for me to process all day. From the moment I saw him at the school, standing beside Tina, looking so impossibly small and yet so devastatingly familiar, it had felt like someone had grabbed my heart and twisted it in their fist. I had wanted to touch him, to pull him close, to brush my fingers through his hair and smooth my hands over his face just to convince myself he was real, that he was real. That Dominic and I had made something together that still existed in this world.
But I had also wanted to run.
I pressed my lips together, unsure, hesitant. I wanted to move, to close the space between us, to press into his side and feel his warmth and tell him that I saw him, that I understood, that I wasn’t okay either. But I didn’t know if he would let me.
So I did what I always did.
I deflected.
Swallowing, I forced myself to look away, to loosen my grip on my knees just enough to shift slightly, clearing my throat as I tried to find my voice.
"How did you get out?" I asked, my tone quiet, measured. “After they took you. After I thought you were dead.”
Dominic didn’t look at me. His gaze remained downward, his fingers now moving slowly, absentmindedly, spinning the gun in his hands, the motion smooth, practiced. He let a beat of silence pass, then another, before he finally answered.
"Alaric," he murmured.
A pause. The gun spun again. The metal caught the dim light, gleaming for just a second before it turned in his palm once more.
"He had connections."
Another pause. Another slow spin of the gun.
Then, almost too soft to hear, he added, “I didn’t know he was working with Vaughn. Not until you mentioned and the pieces clicked. He had been working with him from the very beginning, the very start.”
I inhaled sharply, my body tensing.
Dominic’s tone hadn’t changed. It was still quiet, still even, still composed in that way that sent something uneasy curling low in my stomach. He wasn’t looking at me. His posture was relaxed, too relaxed, the kind of deliberate stillness that told me there was something simmering just beneath the surface, something he wasn’t letting show, something dangerous.
I watched him carefully, my heart pounding, my throat dry.
The gun spun again.
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