“You’re different,” she says, studying me with those eyes that see too much.
“Different how?”
She traces her finger along my jaw, featherlight. I fight the urge to turn into her touch like some desperate thing.
“Relaxed. Like you finally stopped clenching.”
“I don’t clench.”
“Dean.” She laughs, low and knowing. “You’re basically a human fist.”
The truth of it stings. But then—
“Was,” I correct.
Something shifts in her face. Soft. Real. Like maybe she gets it. Gets me. Like maybe I’m not too much for her.
“Was,” she agrees.
We find menus in a kitchen drawer, both of us padding around mostly naked like this is normal. Like I fly to Italy all the time to chase wedding planners who turn my life inside out. The tile is cold under my feet. She shivers when she leans against the counter, and I wrap myself around her from behind, skin to skin.
“Your Italian is shit,” she informs me, squinting at the app.
“Yours is better?”
“I know important phrases. Like ‘more wine’ and ‘where’s the bathroom’.”
“Practical.”
She tilts her head back against my shoulder. “Did we just order six pizzas?”
I look at the confirmation. “Or six toppings. Hard to tell.”
“Either way, we’re committed now.”
While we wait, she raids the villa owner’s wine collection, pulling out bottles like she owns the place. There’s something intoxicating about watching her move through space—confident, unselfconscious. She’s wearing my shirt now, and every time she reaches up, I catch a glimpse of the bruise I left on her hip.
Mine.
“This feels illegal,” she says, examining a Barolo.
“You said the host told you to make yourself at home.”
“Pretty sure they didn’t mean bang in every room and steal the Barolo.”
The image flashes—her against every surface, crying out my name. My voice comes out rough. “We haven’t banged in every room.”
“Yet.” She grins over her shoulder. Pure trouble. “The night’s still young.”
“You’re gonna kill me.”
“What a way to go though.” She laughs.
Fifteen minutes later, the doorbell saves me from doing something stupid like bending her over the kitchen island. Though from the look in her eyes, she’s thinking the same thing.
Six pizzas. Because of course.
We sprawl across the bed like teenagers, boxes everywhere, no plates, no dignity. Just her legs tangled with mine and tomato sauce that’s definitely gonna stain these sheets.
