His arms wrapped around my waist and held me tight. He trembled, and my heart raced against his chest.
We sat there for a long time, wrapped around each other, letting it sink in. Everyone knew now. There was nothing more to do.
Around four thirty, we finally pulled apart.
“We should eat something,” I said. “Make dinner. Try to feel routine for a few hours.”
“Is anything going to feel routine again?” Étienne asked, but he stood, followed me to the kitchen.
We made spaghetti bolognese from my grandmother’s recipe. Simple, comforting, familiar. I moved around the kitchen and pulled ingredients without needing to think—olive oil, garlic, crushed tomatoes, basil. I’d made this recipe enough times to know it by heart.
“My mother texted me,” I said as I browned the beef.
He looked up from washing lettuce. “What did she say?”
“That she loves me. That she doesn’t understand, but she loves me.”
Something shifted in Étienne’s expression. “That’s great, Marco. Progress.”
I drained the excess fat from the browned beef into a small bowl. “What about your father?”
Étienne’s hands stilled, the water washing over them. “Nothing. I didn’t expect anything.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He turned off the water, his movements deliberate. “He made his choice. I made mine. I don’t regret it.”
We ate at the kitchen bar, the same place where we’d hadbreakfast that morning when we were still closeted. That felt like a lifetime ago.
“Tomorrow afternoon.” Étienne twirled pasta on his fork. “New Year’s Eve. First game as openly out players. Are you ready?”
“No.” I met his eyes. “But we’ll do it anyway.”
After eating dinner and cleaning up the kitchen, we moved to the couch. The Christmas tree lights blinked in the corner, the same lights we’d watched for the past week. But everything felt lighter. Freer.
“I can say it now,” Étienne said quietly. “Out loud. To anyone. You’re my boyfriend. My partner.”
The words hit me square in the chest. “Yeah. And you’re mine.”
“Marco Morelli is my partner, and everyone knows it, and I don’t have to hide it anymore.” He turned to look at me. “That’s insane. In the best way. But insane.”
I pulled him closer, and he settled against my side. “Seventeen years I’ve been hiding. And now I don’t have to. It’s…”
“Overwhelming?”
“Liberating.”
We sat in the quiet, watched the tree lights, and processed everything that had happened in the past six hours
“Thank you,” I said finally.
Étienne lifted his head. “For what?”
“For pushing me. For not letting me hide forever. For making me believe we could do this.” I cupped his face, ran my thumb along his cheekbone. “I wouldn’t have done this without you.”
“Yes, you would have. Eventually.”
“Maybe. But not now. Not this soon. You gave me courage.”
