“I love you, Lorenzo.”
She settled back against my chest, and I wrapped my arms around her, pulling her closer.
As I laid there on the floor of the library with my wife in my arms and the fire burning low, I thought about the future.
About nights like this. About chasing her through the house, hearing her laugh, and watching her eyes light up. About cooking together, washing dishes, and fighting over books we don’t need. About falling asleep with her in my arms, her breath warm against my neck, her heart beating in time with mine.
I thought about kids. About the ones we might have someday—little girls with her smile and my stubbornness, little boys with her heart and my fire. About teaching them to cook, to swim, to love without reservation. About watching her become a mother, fierce and tender and everything I never knew I needed.
I thought about growing old. About gray hair and wrinkled hands and a lifetime of nights just like this one.
As much as I craved the way she falls apart for me, the sounds she maked, the way she said my name—this was different.
This was intimacy of a different kind. This was her letting me close, letting me in, trusting me with the broken pieces of her heart.
And I’d never take it for granted.
“You’re thinking too loud,” she murmured, her voice sleepy.
“I’m thinking about you.”
“Liar,” she shot back.
“Thinking about our future.”
She lifted her head, her eyes finding mine in the firelight. “Our future?”
“Our future.” I brushed a strand of hair from her face. “The one where you become a veterinarian. Where we have kids. Where I spend the rest of my life chasing you through a house.”
“You want kids?”
“With you? Yes.”
She’s quiet for a long moment. Then she pressed a kiss to my chest and settled back down.
“I’d like that,” she whispered. “I’d like all of that.”
I held her tighter, feeling her breathing slow, feeling her body relax into sleep. The fire crackles. The wind whispers through the olive trees.
And for the first time in my life, I’s fallen asleep with a full heart.
My wife in my arms. My future at my fingertips.
And the knowledge that whatever came next, we’d face it together.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Zara
Verona, the city of lovers.
That’s what I’ve heard, anyway.
The home of Romeo and Juliet, where star-crossed teenagers died for love, and tourists flock to touch a statue’s breast for good luck in romance. I thought it would feel like a theme park, a caricature of passion, something manufactured and hollow.
But standing in the Piazza delle Erbe, watching the afternoon sun paint the ancient buildings in shades of gold and orange, I understood why Lorenzo had brought me here.
The city breathes romance. It’s in the cobblestones beneath my feet, worn smooth by centuries of footsteps. It’s in the laughter of couples at outdoor cafés, the clinking of wine glasses, the distant melody of a street musician playing something classical and heartbreaking. It’s in the way Lorenzo’s hand rests on the small of my back, possessive and tender, guiding me through the crowd.
