Leaning against the hallway wall outside the physio office while the building slowly empties.
Voices fade.
Doors slam.
Eventually the place goes quiet.
Perfect.
I push the door open without knocking.
She’s standing near the counter with her back to me, scribbling something on a chart.
Her brown curls are falling loose from the bun she had earlier, soft strands brushing her neck.
By the time I close the door behind us, the training center is quiet.
Empty.
Just the low hum of the lights and the faint smell of disinfectant and rubber mats hanging in the air.
Chiara stands near the treatment table, watching me like she’s not quite sure what version of me walked into the room tonight.
And honestly?
I’m not sure either.
Because the second she said yes earlier—the second she kissed me like she meant it—something in my chest snapped tight.
This woman has been under my skin for months.
In my head.
In my blood.
And right now she’s standing there looking nervous and excited all at once, and it makes something fiercely protective rise up in me.
I step toward her slowly.
Not rushing.
Letting the anticipation build between us.
“Door locked?”I ask quietly.
She looks behind me and nods.
“Good.”
Another step.
Her breathing changes—shallower now, quicker.
And I can see the flicker of uncertainty cross her face.
Not doubt about me.
Doubt about herself.
