Page 99 of His to Destroy

There was a time, not too long ago, when mornings were filled with fear.

When every knock at the door made my stomach lurch.

When I woke up wondering if today would be the day my past caught up with me for good.

Now, my world hums with a different kind of energy—chaotic, loud, imperfect.

But it’s ours.

Safe.

Real.

I place a hand over my belly, feeling the soft, fluttering movements inside.

A second chance growing within me.

A life not born of fear or violence, but of love.

I close my eyes and breathe deeply, letting the moment soak into my bones.

This home—the creaky floors, the endless sunlight, the cluttered kitchen counters covered in half-finished projects—it’s more than shelter.

It’s a heartbeat.

A promise.

A family.

By the time Gaspare and Luca return, carrying sandwiches from Luca’s favorite deli and stories about a fencing match that involved "epic" footwork and "at least five flips" (though Gaspare’s amused expression suggests Luca’s exaggerating wildly), the afternoon sun is sliding down toward the horizon.

We eat at the kitchen island, the three of us squeezed together on stools that are slightly too small, laughing between mouthfuls.

Gaspare wipes mustard off Luca’s chin with a napkin, muttering fake complaints about "messy little warriors," and Luca giggles so hard he nearly falls off his stool.

Afterward, Gaspare carries the exhausted boy up to his room, slinging him over one shoulder like a sack of potatoes while Luca howls in fake outrage.

I follow them slowly, one hand on my lower back, smiling so wide it hurts.

Gaspare deposits Luca onto his bed with a dramatic grunt.

"Defeated!" he declares. "The fencing champion is vanquished."

Luca sticks out his tongue, then immediately cuddles into his pillow, eyes already drooping shut.

I kiss his forehead, pulling the blanket up over him, and smooth his hair back gently.

Gaspare does the same, his big hand dwarfing Luca’s small head.

We stand there for a moment, watching him drift into sleep, the golden light of the setting sun painting the room in soft, dreamlike hues.

I feel Gaspare’s hand slide into mine.

I squeeze it.

Hard.

When we finally leave Luca’s room, we move quietly through the house, every creak of the floorboards a familiar symphony.

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