Even if it ends. Even if it breaks me.
It’s noon now. The sun filters gently through the curtains, casting soft, yellowish light along the walls. The scarf I finished earlier lies folded neatly on the bed like a fragile thing waiting to be gifted, a quiet testament to time spent in longing and hope.
I smooth my dress. It's a soft yellow cotton, modest and easy. I run my hands down the sides, trying to steady myself. It's time for the garden.
I walk slowly toward the door, fingertips brushing the knob just as the knock comes. One sharp rap, a pause, then two more. It's familiar and predictable.
I know it's him. Giovanni. I tell myself not to get ahead of myself, but my heart stutters anyway.
I open the door and there he is.
He stands there, hand raised mid-air like he was about to knock again. His eyes meet mine, and something in his expression softens. It's like light falling on water. His mouth curves slightly, almost imperceptibly, but it’s there. That look that says he’s glad to see me. That I matter.
I drink him in.
He’s in a charcoal shirt today, open at the collar, the sleeves pushed to his elbows. The fabric clings in places, just enough to show the strength beneath it. Black slacks. The belt at his waist, the gleam of his watch beneath the cuff.
Everything about him exudes control, quiet dominance. He looks like power sculpted into flesh. Like danger and salvation wrapped into one devastating package.
I sign to him. You're back.
He nods, then signs, How are you?
I respond. I’m well.
Have you eaten?
I sign, Yes, my hands steady despite the flutter in my chest. Maria brought lunch earlier, a simple salad and bread.
He nods then steps closer. His palm cradles the back of my head, and he kisses my forehead softly. Then he ruffles my hair, fingers lingering longer than they need to. I’ve come to know this gesture. It’s his ritual, his love language, and it makes my heart skip every time.
I sign. How are you?
But he doesn’t answer.
His gaze has shifted, dropped. He’s staring at my mouth, and I can see the change in him, the slow unraveling of restraint, the tension building behind his eyes. That look. The one that turns my skin to fire and my pulse into thunder. That look that reminds my body of everything it craves.
I feel the heat rise up my spine, blooming low and fierce. His hand grazes my waist as he leans in, and I tilt my face up toward him. Our mouths are close, too close. My breath stumbles. The air between us thickens. I close my eyes, caught in the moment just before everything tips—
A throat clears. Tomasso.
Giovanni pulls back slowly, like surfacing from deep water. The reluctance is written all over his face. His jaw tightens. He turns to find Tomasso standing just beyond the door. He, of course, is amused.
Tomasso’s gaze darts to me, the smile fading. His face turns grim. I know what it means. He doesn’t want me to hear what’s coming.
Giovanni sees it too, because his gaze darts back to me, and the shift is immediate. The warmth fades, replaced by something harder. Something more guarded. His shoulders are square.
He starts to turn, already moving toward Tomasso, but I reach for him and touch his arm. I shake my head. I sign to Tomasso. Go ahead.
Tomasso hesitates. His eyes flick to Giovanni, waiting for permission. He gets it with a single, reluctant nod.
Then Tomasso signs, Your father’s here.
Giovanni's reaction is instant. He blurts out a curse, “Che cazzo!”
It's the kind of Italian that tastes like fury on the tongue. His whole body shifts. Tightens.
Tomasso lifts a hand, trying to calm him, but it’s useless. Giovanni is already storming toward the hall, the anger pouring off him like heat.
