"Are you?" Sandro leaned back in his chair. "Because you've been different this past week. Distracted. Worried. That's not like you."
"I have a journalist I'm in love with who's being threatened by a federal agent. Forgive me for being concerned."
The admission hung in the air. I'd said the words to Valentino. But this was the first time I'd admitted it out loud to my partners.
Matteo's eyebrows went up. "You're in love with him."
"Yes. Obviously." I ran a hand through my hair. "Is that a problem?"
"No. It's just—" Matteo exchanged glances with the others. "We've never seen you like this. Luca Romano doesn't fall in love. Doesn't let people get close. But with Valentino, you're completely gone."
"I'm aware."
"That's good," Sandro said. "It's what we all went through. Falling for someone who sees past the performance. It changes you."
"Is that what this is? Being changed?"
"Being better," Elio corrected. "Emilio made Sandro better. Stefan made Matteo better. Julian made me better. And from what we've seen, Valentino is making you better too."
"He is." I couldn't deny it. "But I'm terrified of losing him. Of the FBI taking him from me. Of Reeves building a case that destroys both of us."
"Then fight for him." Sandro's voice was firm. "We've all fought for our partners. This is no different. You fight, you protect, you hold on to what matters."
"What if fighting isn't enough?"
"Then you fight harder." Matteo stood. "Luca, you spent years being this version of yourself. Being perfect and controlled and untouchable. But that's not sustainable. Not when you actually care about someone. So you let yourself be human. You let yourself be scared. And then you do whatever it takes to protect what you love."
The words hit harder than they should have. I'd been so focused on maintaining control, on managing the threat, that I'd forgotten the most important thing: Valentino was mine. And I didn't give up what was mine.
"You're right." I grabbed my jacket. "I need to go."
"Where?" Elio asked.
"To tell Valentino to move in properly. To stop letting him deflect and make it official." I headed for the door. "If we'redoing this—if we're building a life together—it needs to be real. All of it."
"Good," Sandro called after me.
I made it to Valentino's Brooklyn apartment in twenty minutes, breaking several traffic laws in the process.
The building was exactly as I remembered—old, slightly run-down, character that came from age rather than design. I climbed the stairs to his fourth-floor walkup and knocked.
Valentino opened the door in sweatpants and an old t-shirt, laptop in hand, looking surprised. "Luca? What are you doing here?"
"Can I come in?"
"Of course." He stepped aside. "Is everything okay? Did something happen with the FBI?"
"No. Nothing like that." I moved into the small studio, looking around at the space that was so completely Valentino. "I wanted to talk."
"About this morning. About me moving in." He set down his laptop. "Luca, I didn't mean to deflect—"
"I know what I want." I turned to face him. "I want you in my home. Not just staying there. Living there. With me. Officially."
"We've been dating for two weeks."
"I don't care. I know what I want and I want you." I moved closer. "I want to wake up next to you every morning. I want our routines to be permanent, not temporary. I want your books on my shelves and your coffee mug next to mine and your mess all over my organized life."
"You hate mess."
