The elevator hums as it descends, the numbers ticking down one by one.
“I just…” He exhales shakily. “I spent weeks convincing myself I’d already lost you, and standing there today, watching him look at you like that felt like I was watching it happen for real.”
My chest tightens. “You didn’t lose me,” I say.
His eyes soften. “I know.”
The elevator dings, but neither of us moves. When the doors slide open, he steps back just enough to let them close again.
I laugh softly. “Gabriel.”
“I need another minute,” he admits, adjusting the bulge in his pants.
My jaw drops as I watch, and he grins before cupping my face again and kissing me less desperately.
“I didn’t buy those pieces because I’m territorial,” he says against my lips.
I raise a brow and he grins again. “Okay,” he corrects, breath ghosting over my mouth. “Maybe a little territorial.”
“A littleis an understatement,” I say, smiling.
He squeezes my hip, and I squeal and jerk to the side, but he pulls me back to him and stares into my eyes with so much admiration, it almost hurts.
“I bought them because I missed every version of you in that room. The quiet version, the smiling version, the one that looks like she’s carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders.” His voice lowers. “I wasn’t there for any of it.”
The weight of his words settles between us.
“You don’t get to fix that with money,” I whisper.
“I know,” he says immediately. “I don’t want to fix it with money, I want to fix it by staying.”
The elevator dings and the doors open again, and this time he doesn’t kiss me, he just takes my hand instead and leads me out. His grip is careful, as if he’s scared that if he holds on too tightly, he might lose me for good.
TWENTY-NINE
GABRIEL | FLORENCE
“You came allthe way to Paolo’s studio just so we could go grocery shopping?” Zalea asks, eyeing the basket I grab from the stack near the entrance of the tiny market by our apartment.
“We’ve never done it before,” I say lightly. “I thought it could be fun.”
But the truth is, I plan to put the cookbooks I purchased for her PCOS to use, now that we’re living together.
I give her the list I wrote while she was with Paolo earlier. It’s two pages long, possibly three. She scans it once, then again, before slowly looking at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“Gabriel,” she says carefully, “this is way too much food for just the two of us.”
I shrug, reaching for a basket of tomatoes and inspecting them like I know what I’m doing. “We can freeze things.”
“Theres fresh fish on here, and spinach, and berries, and about twelve different kinds of grain.”
“I like variety.”
She narrows her eyes, folding her arms. “What’s actually going on?”
I pretend not to hear her and start down the first aisle, but when I look back and notice she hasn’t moved, I stop and exhale before walking back to her.
“There are a few recipes I found,” I admit, tugging lightly at my collar. “Meals that are supposed to help balance your hormones.”
