Bianca, resident chef. His brother’s wife and mother of his nephew. Pregnant with another niece or nephew.
Something in my chest tightens at the reminder that there’s a whole family attached to him. A whole world I’m suddenly orbiting.
“It’s her love language,” he adds, like he’s trying to make me smile. “Feeding people.”
I manage a breath that’s almost a laugh.
He guides me out of the bathroom, one hand at my back, as if I might get lost.
His bedroom is big and designed simply, like the rest of his apartment. Done in sleek, masculine colors, it still manages to radiate comfort instead of being cold.
He goes straight to a dresser and pulls out a pair of sweatpants and a sweater, soft and worn-in.
“For you,” he says, and sets them on the bed.
I stare at them for a second too long.
Because the reality hits me all at once, sharp and humiliating.
I don’t have anything.
No bag. No purse. No laptop. I didn’t even think to grab my phone from my purse before he lifted me into the ceiling.No clean underwear stuffed into a tote because I’m always prepared.
I have literally nothing. I’m standing in his apartment, wrapped in his towel, in his life.
Completely reliant on him.
A part of me recoils at the vulnerability. Another part—traitorous, aching—wants to sink into it.
Antonio’s gaze flicks over my face, and I know he sees the shift. He sees everything.
“Hey,” he says quietly, stepping closer, lowering his voice like the walls might be listening. “I’m going to set the food out.”
He lifts a hand like he wants to touch my cheek, then stops himself, gentle restraint. “Take a minute. Breathe. I’ll be right outside.”
I nod, even though my throat feels tight.
He presses a kiss to my forehead, then leaves, pulling the door mostly shut behind him.
And I’m alone.
Just me, his bed, the clothes he picked for me, and the weight of the truth sitting in my chest like a stone:
I love him.
And I don’t know what that’s going to cost.
Chapter Thirty Nine
Antonio
I spread the containers out on my kitchen island. Bianca didn’t send one thing. She sent enough for a small army.
A heavy foil pan wrapped in two layers of paper. A stack of plastic deli containers with her neat handwriting on the lids. A paper bag that smells like fresh bread. Another bag that clinks softly—glass jars, probably sauce or something she made ahead. She didn’t know what Elsa would want, what she could stomach, what would feel comforting after a day like today, so she made the only choice Bianca ever makes.
She sent a little of everything.
I peel back the first lid, and steam hits my face—something slow-cooked, rich, familiar. The kind of smell that says you’re safe here, you’re fed here, you’re not alone here. My heart tightens so fast it almost pisses me off.
