I lean on the counter and press my forehead to the cool edge as my breath starts hitching. Breath in, breath out.
I tell myself to step back, be reasonable. Make a list, get to bed.
But it doesn’t work.
I grip the edge of the counter harder until my knuckles go white, but the breath still won’t smooth out. The room feels too small. I turn the faucet on cold, cup water in both hands, andpress the cool against my cheeks, my eyes, the mark. The sting snaps me back into my body.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay.”
I shut the water, pat dry, and wrap up in the towel. The terry cloth drags over the bruise, and I flinch. And I ache.
I open the cabinet, grab a tub of cream, and put a big glob on the bite mark. Then cover the smaller bruises as well.
I tug on an oversized sleep shirt and pad out to the kitchen. My new apartment is quiet in the way I love. No upstairs neighbor stomping, no sirens, just the faraway hush of the ocean if I crack the window. It’s what attracted me when Caterina’s agent showed it to me in the first place.
Now, it feels like a curse. Quiet that leaves me alone with my thoughts. I make tea with hands that only shake a little.
When I sit on the couch, my phone lights. Blank home screen. No messages. Good. Bad. I don’t know.
I tuck my feet under me and hold the mug close. Steam wafts over me. I close my eyes and immediately see him buttoning his shirt. I open them fast. I try to replace the picture with something neutral. The restaurant’s dining room, the curve of the banquette, the way the ocean stretches, beautiful view outside the window.
But beautiful can still be dangerous.
Roberto is dangerous.
I shake it out and keep thinking of neutral things. Bianca’s smile when she showed me Stephano’s pictures. Better. Keep it there.
But my brain is a traitor. The reel clicks back to the same scene: the tenderness right before the cold, the look that cracked him open and then sealed him shut. The careful voice.We should get dressed.As if it were that easy.
It isn’t just rejection. I know what rejection feels like; it has a sting and a shrug. This was something else—fear and discipline and a wall slamming down to keep something he thinks is dangerous on the other side. Maybe that’s me. Maybe it’s him. Both.
I set the mug down and press my palms to my knees until I can feel bone. “You’re fine,” I tell myself out loud because sometimes the body believes if you will it hard enough. “You’re fine. You’re going to sleep. You have work tomorrow.”
The words help because they’re true. I am fine. My life still exists. A bruise will fade. I have my dream job with my best friend. And yet.
I breathe. I get up and walk to my bedroom. I set out the scarf on the dresser, the soft blouse I can button higher, the jacket that fits just right and makes me feel like I’m in control.
I slide my laptop, which I haven’t even turned on, back into my bag, tuck fresh highlighters into the side pocket, and plug in my phone. All the little rituals that give me peace.
Back in the bathroom, I twist my hair into a loose tie so it’ll fall right in the morning. The bruise looks darker under the softerlight of the bedroom lamp. I touch it one more time, gentler now. I don’t have to like what it means to admit that it does mean something.
In bed, the sheets are cool against my legs. I stare at the ceiling and let the night sounds come in through the cracked window: the hush of a car passing, the distant shush of water. I lay a palm over my sternum and count the beat until it slows.
I wonder if Roberto is lying in bed with his window open, too.
My eyes sting. I blink hard, and the tears don’t fall. Not now. Not for this. I know how to carry complicated things without dropping them. I have practice
I can hold the ache and the pride at the same time.
The ache that he stepped back from me, the pride that I didn’t beg him not to.
I had stood up, smoothed my skirt with hands that were still shaking, and asked if I still had my job because I needed an answer. He gave it to me. I can build from that.
Tomorrow I will choose my angle in the mirror and walk into my office with my head help high. I will not look for him. I will not avoid him. I will do my job and do it well because that’s mine. Because I am the best marketing executive he’s ever worked with.
Maybe if it weren’t for Caterina, I wouldn’t have the job, but damn if I’m not going to prove to him every minute or every day that I belong there.
And if he looks at me with that quiet, wrecked look in his eyes again, I’ll survive it. I’ve survived worse than a beautiful man with rules.
