And Cristiano Montoni is standing in the middle of it, holding me in his arms.
He lowers me onto the bed so gently, like I’m made of glass. His hands linger for just a moment, one on my back, one on my thigh, and then he pulls away.
He straightens up and looks down at me. His expression is unreadable.
And then he turns and walks out without a word. The door clicks shut behind him.
I stare at the ceiling, my heart still racing, my body still warm from his touch.
What just happened?
I lie there for a minute, maybe two, trying to make sense of the last half hour. The fall. The bike. The ride home pressed against his back. And now this, carried to my room, like a princess in a fairy tale, and then left alone without explanation.
I feel a flicker of disappointment. I guess that’s it. He was just being thoughtful and helping out the housekeeper’s daughter because it’s the polite thing to do.
There’s a soft knock on my door.
“Come in,” I say, and my voice comes out breathier than I intended.
The door opens, and Cristiano is back. He’s holding an ice pack wrapped in a kitchen towel.
“For your ankle,” he says, crossing the room to hand it to me. “Keep it elevated.”
“Thank you.”
I take the ice pack and arrange it carefully over my swollen ankle, wincing at the cold. When I look up, he hasn’t left. He’sleaning against my doorframe, hands in his pockets, watching me.
There’s something in his expression. Something he wants to say.
“What?” I ask.
He’s quiet for a moment.
“I got you something,” he says. “For graduation.”
I blink. “You did?”
“I’ve been wanting to give it to you, but I wasn’t sure if you’d accept it.” He runs a hand through his hair, and the gesture is so boyish and uncertain that it makes my chest ache. “It’s nothing big. Just something that made me think of you and smile, remembering…you know. Better times.”
When we were friends, and I wasn’t afraid of him.
He looks so vulnerable standing there. So different from the aloof Cristiano I’ve been avoiding for four years, and the menacing figure on the motorcycle who stared at me through a dark visor.
This is the boy I used to know. The one who waited for me at the school gates and who let me stroke his hair when he was hurting.
“Can I give it to you?” he asks.
“Yes,” I hear myself say. “Please.”
Relief flickers in his eyes. Or hope.
He steps out into the hallway and bends down, picking up something he must have left just out of sight. When he comes back, he’s holding a small, wrapped package.
I take it from him, my fingers trembling slightly. The paper is simple, blue with no ribbon, but he’s wrapped it carefully, the corners neat and precise.
I tear it open, and open the box.
Inside is a snow globe, large enough to fill my hands. And inside the globe, surrounded by glittering flakes, is a figure Irecognize immediately. A woodland satyr with tiny horns and a mischievous smile, sitting on a mossy rock surrounded by flowers. Puck, fromA Midsummer Night’s Dream.
