All I can think about is getting out of that café, out from under the weight of his eyes, away from the shame that still burns beneath my skin from the last time I saw him.
I just need air. Space. A second to breathe.
I push through the door, ready to put distance between us, when I hear him call out behind me.
“Beatrice, wait.”
Before I can turn, I feel his heat at my back. The scent of leather and spice reaches me, and I know it’s him.
“Let me walk you.” He’s so close I can feel the warmth fanning my face.
“It’s okay.” I turn slowly to look at him. “I can manage on my own.”
“I insist.” He presses. There’s no room for argument in his tone. But still, I don’t back down.
“Don’t you have someone at your table?” I look over his shoulder and see the guy still sitting there, watching us. “I think you should go back to him. It was lovely seeing you again.”
“No, he’s fine. Besides, I was heading out anyway.”
“Matteo…”
“I’m still going to walk out with you either way. And we’re likely heading in the same direction.”
“I doubt that.”
“We are, trust me.” He presses again. “Now, you can either start walking, or I can drag you out of here, Beatrice.”
He looks deathly serious. It’s not a threat. It’s a promise.
“Fine,” I say, resigned.
We step out of the café, and the cold greets us instantly. It hits my face, and I clutch my coffee tighter for warmth.
The rain has faded to a light drizzle, if you could even call it that. We walk side by side, my hands wrapped around the cup like it’s keeping me alive. The heat gives a bit of comfort as we move down the path.
“So… are you from New York City?” he asks, breaking the thick tension between us.
I shake my head. “I’m originally from Chicago. I moved here a few weeks back.”
“And this area—do you work around here?”
I nod slowly. “Sort of.”
“Sort of?” he echoes, raising a brow.
“I’m… in transition.”
Ha. That’s one way of putting it.
“Transition,” he repeats. “What kind of transition?”
“Exactly that. I’m in transition.” I shrug, hoping he doesn’t press.
“How’ve you been since… that night?”
“I’m fine,” I lie.
He doesn’t buy it. I can see it in the tilt of his head, in the way his eyes flick to my hands—still clenched around the coffee like it’s armor.
