It takes me a moment to realize why.
The living room chair, the one that’s leaned to the left since I bought it secondhand three years ago, sits perfectly upright. The coffee table and side tables gleam, their scarred surfaces sanded smooth and refinished to a warm honey glow. And the cabinets and drawer fronts look different, refreshed and almost new.
When I see my bed, my chest tightens. He put together the bed he ordered to replace mine. I heard the delivery truck this morning before I left for the restaurant, but I hadn’t expected this. All of this.
Vin’s leather jacket hangs over the back of the now-stable chair. His phone sits charging on the refinished side table. Thefaint smell of wood stain and cigarette smoke lingers in the air, mixing with something that feels like effort. Like an apology.
My throat burns. I set the grocery bags on the counter where we fought, where whatever we were becoming came to an end. It’s been days, almost a week, of us barely speaking, of pretending the other person isn’t there, of cooking for myself only, and pretending the ache I’m feeling is just exhaustion.
But he didn’t leave. He’s slept on the couch, fixed things around the house. I don’t know how to take that.
The bathroom door opens. Steam billows out, carrying the scent of my soap on his skin. Vin emerges in jeans, bare-chested, a towel slung around his neck. Water drips from his hair down his carved torso, rivers running to the V that disappears into his waistband.
He stops when he sees me. His jaw works, his gaze boring into me, and I force myself to pay attention only to the groceries. Not his incredible body. Not the way he’s staring at me.
Before I’ve consciously made the decision to, I say, “You fixed the chair.”
“The couch, too. Spring was broken. Hardware store had the parts.”
“And the tables.”
“They were shit.” He moves deliberately toward the kitchen, like he’s approaching a deer that might bolt. “Looked like you bought them from a crack house.”
“Thrift store, actually.” I pull out the containers of fresh ricotta, the bundles of fresh spinach and arugula. “Close, though.”
His mouth twitches, almost a smile. Almost.
The silence stretches between us, not hostile but fragile. I busy myself with the groceries, hyper-aware of him standing there, the weight of his gaze heavy.
“You hungry?” The words slip out before I can stop them.
He stills. “You offering?”
“I bought fresh spinach.” I gesture to the bundles of greens. “Thought I’d make that spinach gnocchi but with bolognese this time.”
Something flickers across his face, surprise or maybe relief, as his shoulders drop half an inch.
“The one we made before,” he says.
“Yes.”
He nods once, then moves to the refrigerator, pulling out a beer. The cap hisses when he pops it off against the edge of my counter, a move that should irritate me but somehow doesn’t. He leans against the counter, the picture of casual, but his knuckles are white around the bottle neck.
I set to work. The ritual soothes me: washing the spinach, blanching it until it turns a deep forest green, squeezing out the excess water, pureeing it smooth.
Vin watches all of it silently, sipping his beer. I can feel the apology in his stillness.
“Thank you,” I say quietly, mixing the puree into the ricotta and flour. “For the bed. For everything you’ve been doing around here.”
His throat works on a swallow. “It needed to be done.”
“Still, I appreciate you.”
Vin sets the beer down with a soft click and stares at it for a moment. When he speaks, his voice comes out softer than I’ve ever heard it. “Thank you for dinner.”
My hands still in the dough, I look up at him, really look. His face is a study in control, jaw tight, eyes carefully blank. But underneath, something vulnerable lurks in the set of his mouth.
“You’re welcome, Vincenzo.”
