Page 189 of The Art of Ruin

She opens the door, then looks back at me slowly. “Um, you have a visitor,” she says.

And there he is.

Adriano stands in the hallway holding a paper bag from the bakery near the brownstone and looking so exhausted that my heart breaks.

There’s stubble roughening his jaw. Dark circles beneath his eyes. His coat hangs open slightly like he forgot halfway through putting it on.

His gaze finds me instantly and stays there. Like a starving man at a buffet, he takes in every detail.

God.My chest actually hurts.

“Hi,” he says quietly.

The roughness in his voice nearly undoes me on the spot.

Bri looks between us once before pointing a finger at me. “If either of you starts crying, I’m leaving. You know what, I’m leaving anyway.”

Then she disappears into her bedroom without another word.

The apartment goes quiet as we stand just watching each other.

Adriano doesn’t move closer.

“You brought pastries,” I say finally because apparently my survival instinct has abandoned me entirely, and I’m reduced to small talk.

“You’re not eating properly.”

I blink. “How do you know that?”

His expression shifts slightly. “You looked dizzy yesterday when you came out of the coffee shop on Ninth.”

My stomach flips. “You were there?”

“I was across the street.”

“Adriano—”

“I know.” He drags a hand slowly down his face. “I know how that sounds.”

It sounds insane. It also sounds exactly like the man I fell in love with. Which is unfortunately part of the problem.

“I wasn’t following you,” he says quietly. “I just…” He exhales roughly. “I needed to know you were safe.”

Emotion twists painfully through my ribs.

Because I believe him.

And maybe that’s the thing I’m only beginning to understand properly about Adriano: for him, love and fear have always lived side by side.

“You should come in,” I say softly.

Relief flickers briefly across his face before he reins it back immediately.

Like he doesn’t trust hope anymore where I’m concerned.

He steps inside carefully, setting the pastries on the counter before looking at me like he’s trying to memorize something. “You’re wearing my sweater,” he says after a moment.

Heat crawls slowly into my cheeks. “It’s comfortable.”