flutter open in the morning it takes me a little while to notice that I've curled up against something very smooth and very warm.

Sometime over the course of the night I found my way to the other side of the bed, my arm flung across his bare chest and my head tucked into the crook of his shoulder. My body is pressed close to him, my legs tangled gently with his.

As soon as I realize this, I hurry to detach myself, brushing the sleep out of my eyes. "I am so sorry," I mumble, wrapping the blankets around me, watching his sleepy form spread out next to me between the sheets.

His eyelids float open and that dark gaze settles lightly on my face. I flush. He was definitely awake before I was. There's a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "Rosalina." His voice is still foggy with sleep, and the sound of it sends sparks down my spine.

Just hearing that heavy, low nickname from his lips makes my skin tingle. I can still feel the imprint of him against me, everywhere we touched.

"How long was I..."

A chuckle. "Some time around 4, I think."

Heat rushes to my face. I am so aware of the space between us, the way the light streams through the blinds and settles on his perfect face, that jaw and those bright eyes. "Sorry."

"Don't worry about it."

And I wonder just what I was thinking last night when I let myself fall asleep in his bed, next to him. My god.

It was the most restful sleep I can remember.

"Your bed is very, very comfortable."

He leans onto his side, and I can see the bare skin of his chest peaking out from beneath the duvet. Golden, perfect. "You had a good pillow."

I didn't think my face could get any redder, but it does.

To his credit he doesn't reach out, touch me. He must know that even after everything, I would probably let him.

He makes me so damn weak.

My voice is breathy. "You should have just told me to move."

His eyes are kind, soft. It's easy to forget who he is, what he does for a living, when he looks at me like that. "You were so... peaceful." He shrugs. "I figured you could use some decent sleep, for once."

I try to avoid meeting his gaze. "How did you know I haven't been sleeping?" It's quiet because otherwise he'll hear the shakiness in it.

"Good guess."

Silence.

He studies me, I study him.

His hair is messy, but he still looks like a god, very first thing in the morning.

It makes me self-conscious. I probably look so bad, my hair a rat's nest, my eyes crinkly and tired.

Except, his gaze isn't filled with any kind of disgust.

He looks like he cares, about me. It makes my heart race.

"How have you been, dolcezza?"

The roughness, tenderness, in his voice sends all kinds of shivers through me, and I feel the need to be closer to him. It's such a loaded question—I don't even know how to answer.

"Better." The truth. "The last few weeks have been better."

He just nods. The light in his eyes and the wrinkle in his forehead and the crease near he edge of his lips are all full of understanding, like he can read me and my thoughts and emotions and deepest, darkest secrets just by looking at me.

I wouldn't put it past him.

And because he seems to know exactly what I'm thinking, what I want, he reaches his hand out, gently, lets a crooked finger brush like a whisper against my cheek, holds the edge of my face in his palm and runs his thumb across my skin.

My eyes flutter shut. His hand feels the same.

God, how I missed being touched.

And I remember so vividly (though I've spent countless moments trying to push the memories away) the way we fit together, pressed against each other, my back to a wall, and his skin and breath and lips, and mine.

But even if he can read it on my face he holds back.

And for a scary moment I realize that the uncomfortable tug at the back of my mind that I've been so used to is just gone, because I am not cheating. Because Caleb is dead, and I can't hurt him anymore.

Now the only warning is danger, danger, danger.

But I have never been truly scared that Nero would harm me, and now is no exception.

I touch the hand that rests against my cheek, and his fingers lace through mine, and we look at each other, our locked hands suspended in the space between us.

He looks so, so innocent. So normal. My body reacts the way it always does around him, and my eyes float down to those parted lips, knowing them all too well.

I feel as though my being here and feeling like this is a betrayal. Like I should be grieving.

Except like I've said, I am so tired of sorrow. I can't help the way I feel, towards this man, here, in front of me.

But I came here because I needed to know, and I still do.

Do you really want to know?

Yes.

Would it change anything?

That's the real question. It always has been.

I take a deep breath, searching for the truth in those dark eyes. "Did you really not know?"

Just a small string of tired words. It hangs in the air, fills the silence.

All the hard lines of his face soften; they fall into a tender, honest kind of sympathy that makes me ache all over. I can't help it when the tears sting my eyes.

"I would never have let it happen if I did, Rosalyn. I promise."

And oh, he sounds so incredibly truthful and all I want with every fibre of my tired body is to believe him. The low, rough clarity of his voice is so convincing. I want to be convinced.

"I just..." A tear rolls down my cheek, and he watches, and he looks like he's hurting too. "I don't understand how you could've not known because..." I have to swallow the dryness from my stinging throat, "You're in charge and you're supposed to make the decisions and—"

And I can't because I'm sobbing, silently, and without asking he pulls me towards him and winds his fingers into my hair and holds my head against his chest while I cry.

I wish I didn't have to be such a mess.

"I'm sorry," I choke, but he just gives a gentle shh, comforting me with a kind of skill he shouldn't possess.

"You don't have to be sorry, carina." His voice is the softest sound in the world. "There is nothing you should be sorry about."

I just sniffle into the warm crook of his neck. "But I don't deserve—"

"You haven't done anything wrong, dolcezza. It's not your fault."

All my fears and doubts and worries, he just eases them with his words.

"But I—"

"No, Rosalyn. There is nothing you could've done. Stop blaming yourself."

And I try to argue but he quiets every protest, silences my guilt, assures me that I am not a monster, not a bad person, not wrong or evil or crazy or horrible or going to hell.

And he makes it sound like the truth.

Slowly I pull away just a little and dry my eyes with the back of my hand. I try to brush the wetness of my grief from his bare shoulder but he takes my face in his hands, wiping the tears away with each thumb.

"It's not okay that you lost him, Rosalyn. You're allowed to be sad. You're allowed to grieve."

That makes me laugh, just a little. "I've been grieving for over half a year."

His voice is just a flutter of warmth across my blotchy face. "Dolcezza, something awful happened to you. Don't ever think you have to get over it."

I close my eyes, lean into him, let him tell me all the things I want to hear.

It's like I was broken for the longest time, and he's found a way to put the pieces back together.

"Thank you, Nero." I sniffle.

"Don't thank me, gioia mia. You deserve to be happy."

He sounds so sure that it seems like the truth.

Even after the tears have dried, I wrap my arms around him and he just holds me, and whatever wrong he has possibly done to me I have forgiven.

***

A/N:

I think he's the only one that could actually pick up the broken pieces, but that's just me. Thoughts, comments, concerns? ❤️❤️

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