Matteo entered carrying shopping bags instead of breakfast.
"What's this?" I asked.
"Clothes that actually fit." He set the bags on the table. "I'm tired of seeing you in the same three outfits. You should be comfortable."
I stared at the bags. Then at him. "You bought me clothes?"
"Had them delivered. Your sizes were easy enough to figure out from what you were wearing when you came here." He gestured at the bags. "Try them on. If they don't fit, I'll get different ones."
He left before I could respond.
I approached the bags slowly, like they might be a trap. Pulled out the contents and spread them across the bed.
Jeans in dark denim—expensive brand, softer than anything I'd owned. Several t-shirts in blacks and grays and deep blues. A few button-downs in similar dark colors. Boxer briefs. Socks. Even a pair of boots that looked like they'd actually fit my feet instead of the too-big sneakers I'd been shuffling around in.
Nothing like the designer suits my father made me wear. No ties. No dress shoes. No carefully coordinated outfits that screamed "respectable Romano son."
Just comfortable clothes. The kind of things I'd wear if I had a choice. If I was allowed to dress like a normal person instead of a mannequin.
The gesture was unexpectedly thoughtful.
I stripped off the borrowed t-shirt and sweatpants and tried on the jeans. They fit perfectly—hugging my hips and thighswithout being too tight. The t-shirt was soft, worn-in cotton that felt like heaven against my skin. The boots actually supported my feet properly.
I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror and barely recognized myself.
This wasn't Giuseppe's decorative youngest son. This was just... me. Stefan. Without the polish and the performance and the careful presentation.
I looked like someone who belonged in Matteo's world. Dark clothes. Comfortable instead of pristine. Real instead of ornamental.
I hated how much I liked it.
The lock clicked again. Matteo with breakfast this time—eggs and toast and coffee that smelled incredible.
He stopped when he saw me. His eyes tracked over the jeans, the t-shirt, the way the clothes actually fit my body instead of hanging loose.
"Better," he said, his voice rougher than usual.
"Thank you." The words felt inadequate. "You didn't have to—"
"I know." He set down the breakfast tray. His hand brushed my shoulder as he passed—barely a touch, just his fingers grazing the fabric of the new shirt. "Eat. I'll be back later."
That casual touch stayed with me all morning. The warmth of his palm through cotton. The way his fingers had lingered for just a second too long. Like he'd wanted to touch more but had stopped himself.
He came back at lunch. Set down a sandwich and water. This time his hand rested on my shoulder for a beat longer. Squeezed gently before releasing.
"The clothes look good on you," he said.
"Better than prison sweats?"
"Better than those designer suits you wear for your father." His thumb brushed against my neck where shirt met skin. "You look like yourself instead of a costume."
He left before I could figure out how to respond.
By evening, I was vibrating with awareness. Every casual touch throughout the day had built into something I couldn't ignore. My skin felt hypersensitive. My breath came faster whenever I heard footsteps in the hallway. I was waiting for eight PM like an addict waiting for a fix.
Pathetic.
I was falling for my captor. Craving his attention. Looking forward to chess games and weighted stares and the brief touches that probably didn't mean anything to him but were consuming me entirely.
