When I look up again, Marco’s across the room talking to André. His back is to me but I can see the tension in his shoulders. The way he’s holding himself too carefully.
He understands how thin the ice is, too.
The evening winds down. Parents collect kids and diaper bags and half-eatenfocacciawrapped in napkins for tomorrow. Ben helps me stack the Brave Bites cards with Frederick supervising.
“Did it go good?” she asks seriously.
“It went very good.” I hand her the last card to add to the pile. “You were a big help.”
“Frederick was, too.”
“Obviously. He’s basically running this operation.”
She giggles. The sound is so pure it makes my chest ache.
By seven thirty, the space is clean. André’s doing final checks. Matteo’s already back in the kitchen prepping for tomorrow’s actual restaurant service. Lucy’s gone but she left me a folder with grant information and a note that says “Call me.”
I find myself standing in Ben’s Corner alone, looking at the small craft table where Ben was coloring in between tastings earlier.
My phone buzzes. Marco.Ben wants to know if you’re coming for bedtime story.
I check the time. Seven thirty-five. I could catch the subway. Be there by eight fifteen. Do the Italian story and the Brave Rules squeeze and be home by nine.
Or I could maintain boundaries.
Not blur work and personal any more than we already have.
My thumbs hover over the keyboard.
Then I type:Be there in forty.
Boundaries are important. Professional distance protects everyone.
But so does showing up for a kid who asked for you.
I grab my bag and head for the exit. Jag’s waiting by the Range Rover like he somehow knew I’d say yes.
“Marco called ahead,” he explains when I raise an eyebrow.
Of course he did.
The drive is quiet. I watch the city slidepast the window and think about how different my life looks now compared to six months ago.
No followers counting on me. No algorithm to chase. No brand deals or sponsored posts or carefully curated highlight reels.
Just a job that matters. A kid who needs me. And a man I absolutely cannot have but can’t seem to stop wanting.
When you realize you traded the wrong kind of everything for the right kind of something.
We pull up to the townhouse. The front is dark but I can see lights on the upper floors. Ben’s probably already in pajamas. Frederick’s probably already claimed his spot on her pillow.
I text Marco:Here.
The door opens before I can knock. He’s there in jeans and a plain black T-shirt that should be boring but absolutely isn’t.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.” My voice comes out steady even though my heart is racing.
