I wash and dry my hands. “I’m going to bed.”
“Sophia—”
I turn at the sound of my name. He’s standing in the middle of my small kitchen, this massive man surrounded by my little life, looking at me like I’m something he doesn’t know how to hold without breaking.
“Sleep well,” he says finally. “And… thank you. For dinner. For letting me stay.”
My throat closes. I nod, not trusting my voice, and retreat to my room.
I change into my sleep shorts and tank top, wash my face, braid my hair. My reflection shows me how tired I am, the giant bags under my eyes. I’ve barely slept in days.
The new bed is perfect, king-sized, solid, the mattress firm but yielding.
When I slide between the cool sheets, I curl up on my side, the side I slept on when he shared my bed. I’m leaving space for him for the first time since our fight, wondering if he’ll take it.
The apartment goes quiet. I hear him move around, click off the light, close the bathroom door, run the water. Then nothing.
I close my eyes, willing sleep to come, trying not to notice the Vin-shaped emptiness beside me. Really trying not to miss the weight of him, the heat, the steady rhythm of his breathing in thedark. I’m almost asleep when the mattress shifts, and my eyes fly open.
He’s there, sliding under the covers on his side, keeping a careful distance. I feel the dip of the bed, the whisper of sheets, the warmth radiating from his body across the space he’s left between us.
Neither of us speaks.
28
Sophie
He’s had enough. Three nights of sleeping in the bed next to each other, eating dinner together with minimal polite conversation. I can feel his frustration radiating off him as he paces the perimeter of the kitchen, back and forth, back and forth, but I’m not ready to forgive him. Not yet.
Tonight, I’m making a simple risotto, something that requires my full attention, constant stirring, patience. The Arborio rice releases its starch slowly, each grain swelling as it absorbs the warm broth I ladle in, one scoop at a time. Steam curls around my face, fragrant with white wine and saffron.
I keep my eyes on the risotto, stirring in slow calm circles.
“Sophie.”
He growls my name. I don’t look up, just add another ladle of broth and watch it disappear into the rice.
“Sophia.” His voice rises, sharp with warning.
I test a grain of rice between my teeth: still too firm. Needs another few minutes.
The air shifts as he moves closer. I feel the heat of him at my back, smell the cigarette smoke clinging to his clothes even though he’s been careful to smoke outside.
“You can’t ignore me forever, princess.”
“I’m not ignoring you.” My voice is calm, neutral. “I’m cooking.”
“Bullshit.” His breath stirs the hair at my nape. “You’ve been freezing me out for over a week.”
“You disrespected my food, Vincenzo.” I keep stirring, the motion smooth and constant. “What did you expect?”
He’s quiet a moment, then speaks so softly I almost miss it: “I went too far.”
My hand stills for just a beat. I add more broth and stir. “Yes,” I say simply. “You did.”
He shifts behind me, and I can feels his frustration like it’s a physical thing. Violence, sex, domination, control—those he understands. But this is unfamiliar territory.
I reach for the parmesan, grating it fresh over the risotto as it reaches that perfect creamy consistency,all’onda, wavey, like the risotto is flowing across the plate.
