“Yes?”
“Sing for me again.”
And he does.
Chapter twenty-two
Ginni
Iwake up before Carlo. I’m using him as a pillow again, which never fails to make my heart flutter with joy. Such a small thing, but it feels like the most wonderful gift. That he trusts me enough to sleep so deeply while I’m resting my head on him.
The projector is displaying a gentle spring garden scene above us, complete with blooming cherry trees and butterflies dancing among the flowers. I programmed it to cycle through the most peaceful settings during sleep hours, wanting Carlo’s dreams to be filled with beautiful things rather than the darkness that used to haunt my own nights.
Carefully, so as not to disturb him, I extract myself from his embrace and pad barefoot to the kitchen. The morning routine has become sacred to me. Coffee first, prepared exactly how he likes it, then breakfast that will nourish and delight him. Today I’m thinking French toast with the brioche I baked yesterday, served with fresh strawberries and that heavenly maple syrup from Vermont.
But first, I have something special I want to do for him.
I retrieve my sketchbook from its hiding place behind the cookbooks, running my fingers over the worn leather cover. Inside are dozens of drawings, all of Carlo, created during the quiet hours. I’ve been sketching him since our first morning together, unable to resist capturing the way the artificial light plays across his features, the elegant line of his profile, the way his hands look when they’re finally relaxed.
Some are quick gesture drawings, just a few lines capturing the essence of a moment. Others are detailed studies, lovingly rendered portraits that show every eyelash, every freckle, every tiny scar that tells the story of his dangerous life. All of them are acts of worship, visual love letters to the man who’s become my entire world.
Today’s sketch is going to be special though. Not just another study of his sleeping face, but something that captures the contentment I saw in his expression last night after I sang for him. The way he looked at me like I was something precious, something worth treasuring.
I settle cross-legged on the floor beside the bed, opening my sketchbook to a fresh page. The morning light from the projector is perfect, soft and golden and forgiving. Carlo is lying on his side facing me, one arm stretched across the pillows where I was sleeping, as if even unconsciously he’s reaching for me.
My pencil moves across the paper with practiced strokes, capturing the curve of his jaw, the way his dark hair falls across his forehead, the slight smile that’s playing at the corners of his mouth. He looks younger when he sleeps, less burdened by the weight of responsibility and reputation that he carries when awake.
I’ve always loved drawing. Even as a child, when the world felt too big and too hostile, I could lose myself in creating something beautiful on paper. Art was my escape, my way of making senseof emotions too complex for words. My family never understood it, of course. They saw it as another sign of my fundamental wrongness, another way I failed to be the son they wanted.
But Carlo appreciates beauty. I’ve seen the way he looks at the flowers I arrange, the careful attention he pays to the presentation of our meals. He notices aesthetic details that most people miss, finds pleasure in elegant design and thoughtful composition. When I show him this drawing, I know he’ll understand the love that went into every line.
The sketch takes shape gradually, each mark deliberate and considered. I shade the hollow of his throat, the strong line of his shoulder, the gentle curve of his lips. This is how I want to remember him forever, peaceful and safe and mine.
As I work, my mind drifts to all the other things I want to create for him. The paintings I’ve planned, scenes from our life together that I’ll capture in watercolor and oils. The garden I want to design for our future home, filled with herbs and flowers and quiet places where we can sit together in the evening. The meals I want to cook, the songs I want to learn, the thousand small ways I want to show him how much he means to me.
People think love is about grand gestures and dramatic declarations, but I know better. Love is in the details, the careful attention to what makes someone happy. It’s in remembering that Carlo prefers his coffee strong but not bitter, that he gets a particular expression when he’s thinking about work, that he unconsciously hums when he’s content.
It’s in learning every plane of his face so well that I can draw him from memory, in studying his moods and needs until caring for him becomes as natural as breathing.
The pencil catches on a rough spot in the paper, and I pause to examine the mark. Not a mistake, just a tiny imperfection that adds character to the drawing. Like the small scar on Carlo’stemple, barely visible unless you know to look for it, or the way his left eyebrow sits slightly higher than his right.
I love his imperfections as much as his perfection. The slight roughness in his voice when he first wakes up, the way he sometimes gets grumpy before his morning coffee, the stubborn streak that makes him argue even when he knows I’m right. These aren’t flaws to be corrected but features to be cherished, proof that he’s real and human and wonderfully, beautifully himself.
“What are you drawing?”
His voice, soft and slightly gravelly with sleep, makes me jump slightly. I’ve been so absorbed in my work that I didn’t notice him stirring.
“You,” I say simply, because there’s no point in pretending otherwise. “I hope you don’t mind.”
Carlo sits up slowly, running a hand through his mussed hair. The sheet falls away from his chest, and I have to resist the urge to add him to my collection of figure studies. There’s something so unselfconsciously beautiful about him in the morning, before he’s fully awake and alert.
“Can I see?”
I hesitate for just a moment. Sharing my art has always been terrifying, like offering someone a piece of my soul for judgment. But this is Carlo, and if I can’t trust him with my creativity, who can I trust?
I stand up and turn the sketchbook toward him, watching his face carefully for any reaction. His expression shifts as he takes in the drawing, something soft and wondering replacing the sleepy confusion.
“Ginni,” he breathes, reaching out to trace the air above the paper without quite touching it. “This is incredible.”
