And Enzo is sitting at the kitchen table with a glass of something dark in his hand, his elbows on the wood, his shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow, staring at absolutely nothing like he's been doing it for hours.
He hears me on the stairs.
He looks up and the look on his face when he sees me stops me on the bottom step.
It's not subtle. It's not controlled. For one unguarded second before he locks it down, his eyes drag down the length of me and something tightens across his shoulders, I see his jaw tick like he is holding back, and the silence in the kitchen becomes a completely different kind of silence than it was ten seconds ago.
"Rafael packed it," I say, because I feel the need to explain myself even though I don't owe him an explanation. "It was this or nothing."
A muscle works in his jaw. "Go put something else on."
I bristle. "I don't have anything else. You know that."
"Then put my shirt back on."
"Your shirt is upstairs and I’m not going upstairs." I glare at him, daring him to try and make me.
He looks at me for a long moment, his glass halfway to his mouth, and I watch him consciously drag his eyes back up to my face with what looks like considerable effort.
"Fucking hell, Isabella. You know you shouldn't walk around men looking like that," he growls, running his hands through his hair in frustration.
I lean against the doorframe and cross my arms, which I immediately realize is a mistake because of what it does to the neckline of the dress, but I'm committed now. "Relax. We both know you see me like a little sister." I keep my voice light and easy. "No need to overreact."
Something changes in his eyes.
But I choose to ignore it because I don’t want to know anything.
I don’t want to guess what changed in his eyes, I don’t even know what he’s thinking.
He sets his glass down on the table without drinking from it, and I watch his hand stay there, curled around the glass, his knuckles pressing white.
"Sit down, Isabella."
"I couldn't sleep."
"I can see that. Sit down."
I cross the kitchen and pull out the chair across from him, dropping into it and tucking one leg under myself, and the dress rides higher when I do and I watch him look at the ceiling briefly before looking back at me.
Good. Let him suffer. We can suffer together.
The bottle between us is half empty. Whiskey, dark and expensive looking, the kind Matteo keeps in the cabinet for emergencies.
I reach across the table and pick up his glass.
He goes very still.
I bring it to my lips and drink from the exact same place his mouth was, keeping my eyes on his over the rim, letting him watch me do it deliberately, and I feel the whiskey burn down my throat while the silence between us burns hotter than that.
I set the glass back down.
He hasn't moved. Hasn't blinked. His eyes are fixed on my mouth with an intensity that makes my skin feel too tight.
"What are you doing?" His voice comes out low and rough and careful, like he's measuring every word before he lets it out.
"I don't know."
It's the most honest thing I've said since we got here.
