My heart jumps straight into my throat. Instinct takes over before reason can catch up. I grab the nearest pen and turn in my chair, ready to defend myself against whatever has decided to find me again.
A figure steps into the edge of the light.
“We have to stop meeting like this,” Matteo says dryly, glancing with faint amusement at the pen in my grip.
I lower it, feeling a little foolish now that my pulse has stopped trying to escape my body. “You’re really not helping your reputation,” I tell him.
“That I arrive unannounced?” he asks, stepping fully into the light. “Or that you’re armed every time I do?”
“Both,” I say. Then, because my heart is still racing, I add, “Mostly the second one.”
His gaze flicks to the book open on the table. “What are you reading?”
I follow his eyes and turn the volume slightly so he can see the page. “Poisonous and medicinal plants. Old classifications. Questionable illustrations. My comfort reading.”
He hums softly. “Find anything interesting?”
“Belladonna,” I say immediately. “Deadly nightshade. Beautiful, deceptive, and very thorough if you misuse it.” I tap the margin, where I’ve been scribbling notes. “The line between medicine and poison is always dosage. People forget that.”
His expression turns amused. “Do you know what it means?”
“What?”
“Belladonna. It’s an Italian word. Two words, in fact.” He leans in just a fraction. “It meansbeautiful woman.”
I can feel the blush creep up my cheeks. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Kind of misleading for such a dangerous plant.”
“And yet accurate.” His eyes go dark. “It is beautiful.”
“I know. I saw it in the greenhouse,” I whisper. “Yes. You grow it.”
“I do.”
There’s something about the way he says it that sends a small shiver down my spine. Not fear. Awareness. I glance back at the illustration, at the dark berries and delicate flowers. “It suits you,” I say before I can stop myself. “The plant, I mean. Beautiful. Dangerous. Misunderstood if you don’t know what you’re looking at.”
Silence stretches, heavy but not uncomfortable.
“I get a sense of danger around you,” I add quietly. “Between that and the rumors at the restaurant… sometimes it feels like you carry it with you.”
His mouth curves, not quite a smile. “What if it were true?”
My throat tightens. I swallow, choosing my words carefully. “Then it’s still not my place to judge,” I say. “Everyone is entitled to their secrets. Their way of life.” I meet his gaze. “I’m no one’s moral compass.”
Something shifts in the air between us, subtle but unmistakable. His attention feels heavier now, focused in a way that makes my skin warm.
“Good,” he says softly.
I don’t know why that word lands the way it does. I only know the room feels smaller suddenly, and the quiet between us hums with something that isn’t quite fear—and isn’t quite safe, either.
We’re close enough now that I can make out the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the line of his mouth, the subtle shift in his breathing. My pulse trips. The air between us feels warmer, heavier, like the room has quietly moved in around us.
If I leaned forward, just a little, our mouths would meet.
The thought arrives uninvited and refuses to leave.
