Italy.
A word that belongs in someone else’s life. Someone with fewer responsibilities. Someone who didn’t spend her early twenties learning the sound grief made when it moved into a room and never left.
My fingers skim the edge of the itinerary. Tuscany. Town names I can barely pronounce. Winery reservations. A hotel with a view. His careful, quiet attention to detail lives in every line item.
I look up at him again.
He’s watching me like he’s waiting for me to tell him he overstepped. Like he’s bracing for me to push back.
And maybe I should.
A part of me wants to insist on splitting it because that’s what a good, responsible person would do. A part of me wants to make sure I don’t become someone who accepts extravagant gestures just because they feel good.
But then there’s another truth underneath all of this. He isn’t doing this to impress me. He’s doing it because he wants to give something, but he also needs something in return, which is loss of control for him. He needs me.
“I’m … shocked,” I admit softly.
His jaw is set in a hard, tight line, as if he’s preparing to defend himself.
“Not in a bad way,” I add quickly. “Just … Italy is … huge.”
“I know,” he says, voice steady. “That’s kind of the point.”
I swallow.
“I don’t want you to think I’m trying to buy anything,” he says. “Or skip steps.”
“I don’t,” I say honestly. “I just?—”
“You’re thinking about the money,” he finishes for me.
I nod. His expression softens, like he understands exactly where my head is.
“I’ve had all of this for years,” he says quietly. “And no one to share it with. No one I wanted to share it with.”
My chest tightens.
“Let me do this,” he says. “Please. Not because you owe me anything. Because I want to.”
His voice isn’t sharp. It isn’t possessive.
It’s almost … vulnerable.
And that makes my throat burn.
Before I can answer, he turns away from the table and walks toward the kitchen island. He reaches into a cabinet above the wine fridge, like he’s been thinking about this part too. Like he’s been waiting.
When he turns back, he’s holding a bottle.
At first, I don’t register why my heartbeat spikes.
Then the label catches the light … and I know.
My breath leaves me.
“No,” I whisper.
He sets it gently on the table between us, like it’s fragile.
