Nope. Nope, nope, nope. Not going to go there.
One elbow still hooked under my leg, he grips my face with both hands and drives into me with precision until his eyes start to roll back in his head. “Oh fuuuuuuccckkk, I’m gonna—”
Suddenly his eyes pop open wide and he lets go of my leg and pulls out. I almost slip, and he grabs my arm holding me up as he jerks off on my stomach, groaning. When he’s done, he leans his elbow against the shower wall above my head and rubs his forehead with that hand, looking down at me.
“Close call,” he says, quiet and angry. “That can’t happen again.”
I blink, knowing he means the condom, but I don’t know why he’s mad at me.
My hurt must be on my face because he softens slightly, and grips my chin gently, making me look at him. “Don’t let me do that again, okay?”
I nod, then go on my tiptoes to kiss his cheek, before finishing cleaning up. He’s out of the bathroom before I’m done and by the time I come out dressed in fresh pajamas, he’s back in his jeans on the couch scrolling on his phone, one of the pillows I left out for him the other night under his head, one of the blankets thrown over him.
I frown, confused. “Are you going to bed?”
He doesn’t look up from his phone. “I’m going to sleep in a little bit. Getting up early tomorrow. Thought it’d be easier out here.”
The words are like ice water dumped over my head. I force a laugh, keeping my tone light even though I’m feeling anything but. “Oh, so you break my bed and now it’s not good enough for you?”
He lifts his gaze to meet mine over his phone. “I just don’t want you to get the wrong idea.”
The wrong idea. Right. I get it. I take a breath, willing the hurt not to show on my face. “I’m going to make us some of the arancini I made at work tonight to snack on in bed. Join me if you like.”
I turn toward the fridge and open the door, bending down to pull the arancini out before he can see the tears pricking at my eyes.
Get it together, Sophie. You knew what this was.
I heat the oil and drop the little fried rice balls coated in golden breadcrumbs with a satisfying sizzle. Comfort food. Something to fill the hollowness expanding through me as I watch them turn golden and crispy.
“Smells good.” Vin’s leaning against the counter again, his jeans slung low on his hips.
“They do,” I agree, using tongs to turn them. “Arancini are somehow always the perfect snack.”
I don’t tell him that I made these at work today for him specifically, that lately I’m more concerned about the details of Vin’s menu than I am about the menu at the Arsenal.
When I plate them, I turn to find him right behind me.
He reaches past me, snatching one off the plate.
“Vin, no! They’re too hot!”
But he’s already popped it in his mouth. His eyes go wide, and he starts hopping around my tiny kitchen, trying to blow air out around the scalding rice ball.
“Spit it out!” I grab his arm, half laughing, half horrified.
He shakes his head violently, still hopping. Around the bite, he manages to say, “Can’t do it. Too good.”
“Vincenzo!” I rush to get him a glass of water, shaking my head as he finally swallows, grimacing. “And now you’ve burned your taste buds so you won’t be able to taste the rest of them or anything else I make you for days.”
He takes the water, gulping it down. “I hope that’s not true.”
He reaches for another arancini, but I snatch the plate away, holding it out of reach. “Oh no. You’re going to let these cool first like a normal person.”
I head toward the bedroom, carrying the plate. Behind me, I hear him pause, the indecision practically radiating off him.
“Do you want to finish that documentary you started last night?” I call out, settling onto the mattress with the plate, and reaching for the remote. “The World War II one?”
Silence. Then footsteps. He appears in the doorway, conflicted, his jaw working.
