"You're such an idiot," I say, wiping my mouth, shoving his face away. He laughs too, stumbling back a little. He tilts his head like a confused puppy.
"Can I wash your face?"
I blink. "You?You can barely walk."
"I know," he says, and his voice drops a little. "But I want to."
I should laugh again. Brush it off. But I don’t. Because deep down, I already know.
This? Him? It isn't going to last.
A month from now, I'll be wishing I could come back to this exact second. So I nod. "Okay, drunk idiot," I say. "Come on." He steps in behind me, carefully. He reaches up, gently pulls my hair out of my face, holding it back.
He dips his hand in the sink, scoops up water, and presses it to my skin. The water is freezing. His hand is hot.
I laugh as the cold slides down my neck. "Try not to drown me, please. Drowning is not an option."
He grins against my cheek. "No promises, angel." He grabs the soap, uses way too much, and smears it across my face. So messy and uneven. I can't stop laughing. "Gio, seriously, this is awful." He just hums like he's proud of his masterpiece. Then, out of nowhere, he turns me around and sits me down on the toilet lid.
Gently. Takes a small towel, and wipes my face with slow, focused movements. I stare at him. His face is all concentration. He looks like he is doing something so serious.
"I didn't know you get so soft when you're drunk," I say, teasing. He doesn’t answer. He just keeps wiping, gently.
And that silence says everything.
If this is "nothing," then why does it feel like everything?
My head is a mess of questions I'll never ask him.
Do you want me or do you just want access to me?
Am I temporary, or are you just too scared to admit I'm not?
Is this just comfort for you, or is it something deeper you're too stubborn to name?
I keep hoping he'll slip. That one day he'll say something he can't take back. That he'll get tired of standing in the doorway and either step in or walk out.
That he'll finally pick a side.
Yes, you're mineorno, you never were.
He makes it so hard to believe we're nothing. But he still refuses to give me a reason to call us something. Only signs. Never solutions. And it's draining. He looks around, kind of lost, until his eyes land on my face cream. He picks it up real slow. Opens the lid. Smells it.
"I remember this," he mumbles. "You used this every night in Spain." He dips his finger in. And my breath catches.
He turns toward me. Right there. And starts applying it to my face. I can feel every breath between us.
I can see every little detail. His lashes, the scar at the corner of his mouth from that fight he got into at Sophia's party, his lip ring glinting in the bathroom light.
My heart goes insane. It doesn't make any sense, how can this feel brand new, when we've already touched? When we've already gone there? We're not even doing anything dirty. He's literally just putting cream on my face. That's it. No hands down my pants, no making out against a wall, nothing.
And somehow I feel more exposed than when I'm naked in front of him. I use the moment to stare. His brows are pulled together in concentration. I wish I could make this face mine. Like officially.
I wish I at least had the option to claim him like a normal person. To stand next to him in public without feeling like I'mdoing something illegal. Not this. Not pretending this doesn't mean anything. There’s a tiny leaf stuck in his hair, probably from earlier. I reach up and pluck it out while he's still rubbing the cream into my skin. He blinks at me. I just shrug. He really doesn't look as terrifying as everyone makes him sound.
They talk about Gio Fontana like he's some nightmare on a motorbike. I look at him up close and all I see is…soft.
A little grumpy.
