Chapter 147
The first thing I felt was warmth.
Not the gentle kind from a morning sunbeam, but the deep, steady heat of someone’s arms holding me as though I might disappear if he let go.
I blinked awake to find Francesco’s face so close that his breath brushed my cheek–warm, slow, and entirely unhurried. His eyes were open, already watching me. There was something in them that rooted me to the moment, something heavy and unspoken.
“Buongiorno, mia luna,” he murmured, his voice low and rough in the way it always was when he’d just woken.
My chest tightened. That endearment–my moon–wasn’t just a name. It was everything I’d become to him and everything he’d lost before finding me again.
His thumb brushed along my jaw, a slow, reverent motion that felt almost like a prayer. “Do you know,” he said quietly, “how long I’ve wanted to wake up with you like this?”
I swallowed, unable to speak right away.
The answer was in his gaze–in the way it softened and darkened all at once, pulling me closer.
More than a year.
More than a year where I’d been nothing more than a shadow to him–missing, hurt, unreachable. I’d thought my absence had been mine alone to bear, but now I saw how it had carved lines of longing into him, deep and unhealed until now.
His forehead pressed lightly to mine, and for a few breaths, we just stayed there, our noses brushing, our eyes closed.
“I missed you,” I whispered.
The words seemed to undo him.
His hand slid to the back of my neck, pulling me into a kiss that was soft at first–tentative, like he was afraid I’d fade away–but then deepened with the kind of ache that could only come from being starved of someone for too long.
He kissed me like he was learning me again, mapping the shape of my lips, memorizing the sound of my breath between each slow press of his mouth.
And when he finally pulled back, his eyes stayed closed, as if he wasn’t ready to face the world yet.
“I’m never letting you out of my sight again,” he said, and though the words were quiet, they carried the weight of a vow.
I could have stayed in that bed forever. But the city outside was calling–its morning hum drifting in through the shutters, the faint smell of fresh bread curling in the air. Francesco noticed me glancing toward the window and smiled faintly.
“You want to see it,” he said. Not a question.
I nodded, and that was all it took.
He sat up, still holding my hand, and tugged me gently from the bed. His movements were unhurried but deliberate, like even getting dressed together was something he wanted to savor. When I tried to hurry, pulling on my coat, he stepped behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and resting his chin on my shoulder.
“Slow,” he murmured against my ear. “We have the whole day.”
I turned my head slightly, catching the edge of his smirk. “And the city won’t wait forever.”
His smirk softened into a smile. “Then we’ll go claim it before anyone else does.”
1/4
Chapter 147.
We stepped out into the cobblestone street with our fingers entwined, the early sunlight stretching long across the stones the air was cool nou a make me draw my coat closer, but Francesco’s hand was warm in mine.
I’d expected him to lead, but instead, he let me tug him in whichever direction caught my attention a bakery with baskets of croissants starved in the window, a florist arranging buckets of tulips and daffodils, a tiny café with just three tables outside.
Every time I stopped, he stopped too, never impatient, never rushing me.
It felt almost unreal to move like this—with no guards, no watchful eyes, nó duties hanging over our heads.
Just two people, walking together in a place no one knew us.
At one corner, we paused to watch an old man painting the street on a small canvas. His strokes were quick but certain, capturing the tilt of the buildings and the flicker of light on the windows.
I didn’t realize Francesco was watching me in
“What?” I asked.
of
the painter until I turned and met his gaze.
“Just wondering if you’ll ever look at me the way you look at art,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting.
I felt my cheeks warm. “Maybe I already do.”
His smile then–soft, slow, almost disbelieving–was worth more than anything the city could offer.
We wandered like that for what felt like hours but must have been less. Each street turned into another postcard view, each shop window another excuse for me to tug him closer, lean into his arm, or laugh when he murmured something teasing in my ear.
And every time I laughed, he looked at me as though the sound itself was a treasure he’d been searching for all his life.
It was overwhelming sometimes, the way Francesco looked at me–as though every moment was worth memorizing. I had been gone, missing, lost for more than a year, and yet here he was, holding me like he was afraid to blink and lose me again.
We never had this alone time like this, so I guess this is why he agree to do it with me.
We slipped into the rhythm of the city easily, though we were outsiders here.
The air was filled with the warmth of fresh bread, roasted nuts, and the sweet perfume of candied fruits. Street vendors called out cheerfully, their accents dancing in ways that made the words sound like music.
“Try this,” Francesco murmured, guiding me to a stall where a man sold small tarts dusted with powdered sugar. Before I could protest, he bought two and pressed one into my hands.
The pastry melted on my tongue, buttery and tart at once, making me close my eyes with a sigh. When I opened them, Francesco was watching me, not the tart. Always me.
“What?” I asked, cheeks warming.
“You make everything look better,” he said simply, brushing a stray crumb from my lip with the pad of his thumb. The touch lingered, deliberate, and I had to look away before I melted right there in the street.
We moved from one stall to another–cheese sharp enough to sting my tongue, sausages grilled and steaming, strawberries dipped in chocolate that left my fingertips sticky. Every time I hesitated, Francesco was there, encouraging me, as if this morning were about more than food. As if it was about reminding me how to live again.
At one stall, an elderly woman sold roses–bright reds, soft pinks, and pale creams. She greeted Francesco with a knowing smile, and without hesitation, he chose one. Not red, not pink. A soft ivory bloom that seemed to glow in the sunlight.
He tucked it behind my ear, his fingers grazing the curve of my cheek. “Perfect,” he murmured, and for a moment, I forgot to breathe.
ΓΙΑ
Chapter 147
The woman tooed, calling us les amoureux” the lovers and I wanted to laugh, but the words caught in my throat because they felt to LIKE,
People noticed us.
They couldn’t help it.
Francesco towered over nearly everyone, broad–shouldered and striking in a way that drew eyes even when he tried to blend in. Yet his attention was always on me. His large hand wrapped around mine, protective and tender all at once. His dark eyes softened every time I spoke, his mouth curved in a way that made it clear he hadn’t smiled like this in a long time,
Beside him, I must have looked almost fragile, my hand swallowed in his, my frame dwarfed by his sheer presence.
And yet, every time I laughed, every time I leaned into him, I could feel the ripple of envy from strangers passing by. Their gazes lingered, some smiling, some wistful, as if they couldn’t help but wish for what we had.
It wasn’t just the sight of us together–it was the way he treated me. As though there was nothing else worth looking at. As though every laugh, every bite of food, every step we took was sacred.
We sat at a café table next, the chairs small and delicate beneath Francesco’s large frame. The waiter smiled knowingly as he placed cups of steaming café au lait before us, along with a plate of delicate macarons in pastel shades.
I reached for one, but Francesco intercepted my hand. He held up the smallest macaron between his fingers and offered it to me, waiting until I leaned forward to take it from him. His eyes followed the way my lips brushed the sweet, his expression unreadable but intent.
“You’re enjoying this too much,” I teased once I swallowed, though my voice came out softer than I intended.
“Of course I am,” he said. His smile was slow, almost dangerous in its tenderness. “I’ve been starving for this. For you.”
Heat bloomed in my chest, spreading down to my fingertips.
I looked away, pretending to admire the street beyond us, but his hand found mine across the table, steady and warm.
We lingered like that, sipping coffee, stealing bites of sweets, watching the city swirl around us. It felt like a dream, one I didn’t want to wake from.
LA
Eventually, we stood again, wandering down toward the heart of the square. Musicians played nearby–an accordion, a violin, voices rising in song. A little girl twirled in circles to the music, her laughter ringing like a bell.
Francesco leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Dance with me.”
My eyes widened. “Here? Now?”
“Why not?” His smile was infuriatingly sure, his hand already at my waist.
Before I could argue, he guided me into the open space, his movements easy, fluid, utterly confident. I stumbled at first, but he steadied me, his hands firm and reassuring. The music wrapped around us, and suddenly the world narrowed to him and the sound of strings.
He moved as though I were fragile glass, his touch protective but never confining. I couldn’t stop smiling, couldn’t stop laughing when he spun me gently, his large hands catching me again as though I’d been made to fit there.
And people stopped. They watched. Some clapped in rhythm, others whispered behind their hands, eyes shining with envy or delight.
But I barely noticed.
Because Francesco’s gaze never left me.
Not once.
When the music ended, the crowd applauded, but I was too breathless to care, I leaned into him, my forehead resting against his chest, and felt the steady thunder of his heartbeat beneath my ear.
Chapter 147
“I think they’re jealous,” I whispered.
“Good.” His lips brushed the
crown of my head. “Let
them
- be. As long
as you’re mine.”
And in
that
moment–under
the sun,
in a
foreign city that wasn’t
ours
I know he
right that i
arr
his and
he i
is mine.
C
