Page 69 of Unleashed By Eden

Then he pulls back, and he’s smiling. The charge flickers between us, making my thighs press together.

The rest of the afternoon is bliss. We walk through the Musée d’Orsay, lingering in front of anything that pulls one of us in. Every time, he stands behind me, arms wrapping around my waist, chin on my shoulder. His breath fans over my neck, his heat seeping into my back.

For once, no one’s asking for a photo or screaming his name. We’re just two people in a museum, looking at dead painters’ feelings.

We find a small bistro tucked down a side street for dinner. Candles burn low in old wine bottles, wax running in thick drips. The tables are too small, forcing us in close. His thigh presses against mine under the table and doesn’t move.

He orders for us—still in terrible French—and we end up with creamy pasta and full-bodied wine to die for. We talk about nothing and everything. Old gigs. Music trivia. Nightmare shoots. It’s a strange relief being somewhere alone and anonymous.

He doesn’t check his phone once. Or drift off into himself. He stays present, here with me.

Until his phone rings.

He goes very still before he reaches for it. Glances at the screen, then lifts it to his ear.

My stomach hollow outs.

I watch his face while he listens. The restaurant light makes it harder to read, shadows slicing across his features. His eyes flick up to mine, then away. His mouth presses into a line. One long breath leaves him, his shoulders drop, bit by bit.

“Okay,” he replies quietly. “Thank you. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

He ends the call.

And looks at me.

But I already know.

“It’s clear,” he says, swallowing. “It’s not cancer.”

The world stops spinning, everything stilling around us.

“Stage two cirrhosis of the liver,” he continues. “I’m fine. I mean, I’ve got shit I need to fix, but . . . I’m not dying.”

Relief floods through me. Tears sting my vision, burning behind my eyes before I can fight it. I slap my hand over my mouth, trying to contain the sound that wants to escape, but he reaches across the table and pulls it down, lacing our fingers together instead.

“Vi,” he murmurs. His thumb strokes over my knuckles. “It’s okay.”

I nod, once, twice. My throat is too tight for words. I’m dizzy, lightheaded, almost weightless, because the fear I’ve been carrying for him finally lifts.

He’s not dying.

I look at him across the table, candlelight flickering across his face, and the truth that’s been circling me since I stepped on this tour finally settles.

I’m in love with him.

Hopelessly. Stupidly. Irreversibly.

I probably never stopped loving him. I buried it under anger instead.

Sitting here in Paris with his fingers wrapped around mine, all the walls I built out of spite and survival start to crack.

The anger hasn’t vanished. It’s still there in the background, a reminder of every wound he left behind. But it no longer screams. It sits further back now, more candle flame than wildfire. For the first time, the idea of letting it go doesn’t terrify me.

He squeezes my hand gently.

“You okay, little Vi?”

I meet his eyes. “I’m perfect. And don’t call me that.”