I’ve never felt so free.
The ride stretches on, and I lose track of time. The world narrows down to the rumble of the engine, the flex of his muscles as he shifts and turns, the steady rhythm of his breathing.I’m wrapped around him like he’s the only solid thing in the universe, and for these few perfect minutes, I let myself forget everything. The wardrobe. The pizza parlor. The four years of silence and the fear that lives in the pit of my stomach whenever he’s near.
Right now, there’s just this.
There’s just us.
And I don’t want it to end.
But eventually, the bike slows. The engine’s roar drops to a purr. The familiar gates of the Montoni mansion rise before us.
We pull into the garage, and he cuts the engine.
Silence.
“Mina.”
His voice is soft.
I blink, surfacing from the dream. We’ve stopped. We’re home. The ride is over. And I’m still holding him. My arms are wrapped tight around his waist. My cheek is pressed against his back. My whole body is melted into his like I belong there.
Oh, God.
I jerk back so fast I nearly fall off the bike.
He gets off first, swinging his leg over with that easy grace that makes everything look effortless. Then he turns to me and reaches for the helmet, his fingers brushing my throat as he unfastens the strap. He lifts it gently off my head and hangs it on the handlebar.
My hair is a mess. I can feel it, tangled and windswept, sticking to my cheeks. I probably look ridiculous, but he’s standing over me and gazing at me like I’m beautiful, and I don’t know what to do with that.
He offers me his hand.
I reach for it, expecting him to help me get off the bike and limp inside. My ankle is throbbing again, the pain rushingback now that the adrenaline of the ride has faded. I’m already dreading the stairs.
But he doesn’t help me stand. Instead, he slides one arm behind my back and the other under my knees, and he scoops me off the bike and into his arms.
I gasp, clutching him reflexively. “Cristiano.”
“I’ve got you.”
He says it like it’s simple. Like carrying me is the most natural thing in the world.
He straightens, and I’m so high up. My arms go around his neck automatically, clinging to him for balance, and our faces are inches apart. I can see the dark lashes framing his eyes. The curve of his lips, slightly parted.
“I can walk,” I protest weakly. “You don’t have to carry me.”
“You can’t walk. That’s the point.”
He carries me through the garage and into the house like I weigh nothing. His arms are steady beneath me, his chest warm and solid against my side. I can feel the flex of his muscles as he moves, the easy strength in his body. He’s so careful of my ankle as he passes through doorways.
I should tell him to put me down and hobble up the stairs myself, even if it takes forever. Even if it hurts.
But I don’t. I just let him carry me, my head tucked against his shoulder, my heart pounding so hard I’m sure he can feel it.
This feels like a dream. The kind you have just before waking, where everything is perfect and nothing quite makes sense, but you don’t question it. There’s no fear in me. Just gratitude and confusion and warmth unfurling in my chest.
He takes the stairs like they’re nothing, two at a time, and then we’re in the hallway outside my room. He nudges the door open with his shoulder and carries me inside.
My room is cramped compared to his. The bed takes up most of the space, covered in the faded quilt my grandmother made.There are posters on the walls. Bands I liked in middle school, and a map of the world with pins in all the places I want to visit someday. It’s a child’s room, really. A girl’s room.
