I can’t help but laugh. “She criticized your cooking on her deathbed?”
“Said the pancetta was too thick and I was disgracing the family name.” He shakes his head, still smiling. “Stubborn woman. I loved her.”
He makes scrambled eggs with cheese, toast with real butter, and pours me a glass of orange juice.
“Eat,” he says, sliding the plate in front of me.
“Bossy.”
“You haven’t seen bossy yet.” But there’s warmth in his voice as he says it. “Eat, Luca. You need your strength.”
I pick up the fork, and suddenly I’m ravenous.
Enzo leans against the counter across from me, eating his own portion, watching me with those dark eyes.
“What?” I ask around a mouthful of eggs.
“Nothing. Just…” He shakes his head. “You’re here. In my kitchen. Wearing my clothes. Eating food I made you.” His voice drops. “I didn’t think I’d get this.”
“This?”
“You. Like this. Without the anger or the heat or the pretense.” He sets down his fork. “Just you.”
I swallow hard, the food suddenly difficult to get down. “I’m still angry. About everything that happened. About Marco.”
“I know. But maybe not at me anymore?”
“No,” I admit quietly. “Not at you.”
We finish eating in comfortable silence. Enzo takes the plates, rinses them, then takes my hand again.
“Bed.”
“Now that, I agree.”
By the time we make it to the bed, I can barely keep my eyes open. Enzo pulls me against him, and I go willingly, letting him tuck me into his body with my back to his chest. His heartbeat is steady against my spine.
“Enzo?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m scared.” The admission is barely a whisper. “Of this… What it means.”
His arms tighten around me. For a long moment, he doesn’t respond, and I think maybe I’ve said too much. Pushed too far into territory we’ve been carefully avoiding.
Then he speaks, quietly, almost lost against my hair. “Me too.”
But I hear it. Feel the truth of it in the way his heartbeat picks up against my back, in the way his grip on me shifts.
“I’m scared I’ll wake up, and you’ll remember you hate me,” he continues. “That you’ll realize what we’re doing is insane and walk away.”
My throat goes tight. I turn in his arms until I can see his face, and there’s something raw in his eyes that makes my chest ache.
“I’m scared I won’t want to walk away,” I admit. “That choosing to be with you means betraying Marco’s memory.”
“Luca—”
“But I’m more scared of not exploring this.” My voice cracks.
