He didn't jump right in. Set down his glass, turned to me, profile to the arbor light, something in his eyes clear—suppressed, heavy, not new, surfaced after long storage.
"In France," he said, "how was it?"
I blinked. Not what I expected.
"Fine," I said, "Leo kept it full."
"Full," he echoed, like weighing it, "just full."
"Yeah."
He picked up his glass, sipped, set it down, fingers still on the stem, no more tapping.
"I regret it," he said, "Olivia."
My fingers froze.
"That day," he went on, voice low, careful like he might breaksomething, "in the hospital room, what I said. The kid thing, I... I had no right to decide. I know. I've known for a long time."
I stared at the row of lights ahead, silent.
"After you left," he said, "Juliet cried forever. Holding her, I kept thinking it was my fault."
"Ezio—"
"I know sorry doesn't cut it," he said, "I'm not here to apologize. I just," he paused, "I just want you to know I'm sorry."
Night wind rustled the arbor leaves, soft shushing.
I turned my face away, sucked in a breath, pushed down the sting in my nose.
Then his hand covered mine. Really covered, fingers lacing through, holding tight.
My heart skipped.
I should pull away.
I didn't.
"Olivia," he said.
I turned, he was close.
His eyes dark in the light, that long-suppressed thing fully up, no mask, no hard shell, exposed for me to see.
He leaned in, kiss landing on my lips.
Light, slow, like asking a question, waiting for my answer.
I closed my eyes.
Wine swirled in my head, leaves whispering on the arbor, his fingers locked with mine, warm, tight.
I kissed back.
For a moment, the world shrank to this arbor, to the space between chairs, to his hand holding mine and that soft, weighted kiss on my lips.
His hand slid from my back, up my arm, around my waist, pulling me closer. Lips left mine, brushed my ear, breath heavy, low whisper: "I missed you."
