Sal pushed open the bedroom door like he didn't care, even though everything in him was screaming.

The bed still smelled like him. Vincenzo.

Figures.

Sal stood there for a second, jaw tight, his arms folded over his bare chest like that would keep everything from spilling out. His throat burned. His eyes stung, but he blinked it off. He wasn't going to cry over this—not again.

Last night had been a disaster. He'd opened his stupid mouth, said something sharp, something selfish, and boom—she walked out. Straight into Vince's room. His room now, apparently.

Sal had watched the cameras until he couldn't take it anymore. Then he sent the texts.

"You think she wants you? She's just pissed at me.""She always comes back to me.""She moaned like that for me first.""You're just cleanup."

And Vince? Left him on read.

Didn't even have the balls to rub it in. Just silence. Like Sal wasn't even worth a fight.

Now here he was—pathetic, shirtless, barefoot, standing in the doorway like a kicked dog. The kind of dog that bites everyone and then cries when no one pets it.

He shut the door quietly behind him, padded over to the bed, and slipped under the blanket without asking. Just needed to be close. His chest pressed against her back, arms hesitantly wrapping around her waist. He buried his face in her shoulder, sighing out the guilt like it would leave his lungs if he breathed hard enough.

"I'm such an idiot," he mumbled under his breath, frowning deeply, lips brushing against her skin.

He didn't say sorry—not yet. Not out loud. But the way he clung to her, pouty and quiet, like a kicked-up storm with nowhere left to go... that was the apology.

He just needed to stay like this for a little while. Maybe if he held her long enough, she'd remember he was still hers too.