Raffael’s house.
Safe.
The word makes me smile against the pillow.Safe.I test it in my mind, roll it over in my head like a foreign phrase I’ve only just learned. Even the lingering terror from last night’s nightmare isn’t enough to ruin it.
Because he was there.
So tender, so thoughtful, like I was something precious. And he’s always wanted me. I know that now, just like I’ve always wanted him.
I hum without thinking, a soft little tune that slips out before I can catch it. My eyes open slowly to the spilling sunlight across the room. The spot in bed beside me is empty, but the sheets on the other side are still warm. I can almost feel the imprint of his body there, the arm he’d kept wrapped around me all night.
He’s gone.
The realization dulls the brightness in my chest for a moment, but not enough to steal the little hum that slips out again as I stretch.
When was the last time I hummed?
I try to remember, but the years blur together—three long, gray years where the smallest joys were dangerous, punishable. Not that the eighteen that came before that were anything to write home about. My father is a cruel man. Not like Roberto, but he never held back his slaps or cutting remarks either.
I take my time in the shower, letting the hot water pour over me, and the steam wraps around me like a second skin. My fingers trace over my arms, my shoulders, the places where bruises used to live, and I feel… lighter. Different.
It’s not gone, the fear, the doubt, the instinct to look over my shoulder, but it’s quieter this morning. Less like ascream, more like a whisper that I can ignore if I try hard enough.
I hum again, louder this time, and it echoes off the tile.
I get dressed slowly, choosing one of the soft sweaters from the closet—one I still can’t believe was waiting here for me—and a pair of slacks that fit like they were made for me. My hair’s still damp from the shower, but I leave it loose. The ends brush just over my shoulders, and I'm liking the feel of it. Just like I'm liking that my hair is not pinning me against the bed, a chair, or anything else any longer. Barefoot, I pad down the hallway toward the kitchen.
The smell of coffee, bacon, eggs, and something faintly sweet greets me before I even step inside. The moment I cross the threshold, Raffael looks up from whatever he’s doing and drops it without a second thought. In two strides, he’s in front of me, and his hands slide around my waist as he pulls me in tight.
"Good morning, bella mia," he murmurs, warmly. Then, before I can blink, he sweeps me off my feet—literally—and spins me in a wide, dizzying circle.
A laugh bursts out of me, sudden and bright, and for a second, I don’t even recognize the sound as mine. When he sets me back down, his mouth is already devouring my lips, his kiss deep enough to steal my breath, his hold unyielding in the best way. I sink into it without hesitation, my fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.
When he finally pulls back, there’s a smug little smirk tugging at his mouth. "I wanted to get the awkward first-morning-after moment out of the way," he says.
I’m still catching my breath, but I smile at him, my cheeks warm for all the right reasons. "You succeeded."
He guides me toward the table with one hand at the small of my back and pulls out a chair with a little flourish. "Sit, sit," he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world to take care of me.
I ease into the seat, and he’s already setting a plate in front of me: bacon, scrambled eggs, and a golden waffle that smells faintly of cinnamon. Steam curls up from the food, making my stomach tighten with hunger. Without missing a beat, he slides a tall glass of orange juice in front of me, the condensation already beading on the glass. "Fresh-squeezed," he says, almost offhand, but there’s a quiet pride in his voice.
The first sip tastes like heaven. The second is even better. The sweet tartness is just what I needed as it floods my mouth, and I realize I haven’t had orange juice in years, not like this.
He takes the seat across from me, a mug of coffee in his hand. For a moment, he just watches me over the rim as he drinks, his eyes softer than I expect for this early in the morning.
"How are you feeling?" he asks finally.
I glance down at my plate, then back at him. "Good," I admit, surprised at how easily the word comes. "The most… relaxed I’ve ever been, I think."
Something shifts in his expression, like my answer matters more than I can possibly understand. "That’s all I want, bella mia," he says quietly. "You, safe, you… at ease."
The words settle in my chest, warm and solid, and for a moment, I just sit there, letting them sink in, while the smell of coffee and bacon fills the air.
He doesn’t rush me. He just sits there, sipping his coffee, occasionally glancing up at me, waiting until I’ve cleaned my plate and pushed it away. When I lean back, content and more full than I’ve been in a long time, he sets his mug down.
"Sophia," his tone shifts to something lower, steadier, carrying a weight that slows my pulse. "I need to tell you something."
I tilt my head and wait for whatever bomb is coming my way. I try to read his body language. There’s no tension in his shoulders, but his eyes… they’re sharp, locked on me.
