has nowhere to be, and neither do I, so I let him hold me there in his bed for a long time.

I run my fingers through the dark waves of his hair, he brushes a thumb across my cheek, rests a hand softly on the curve of my hip.

I don't want us to stop touching. Being near him makes every part of me warm.

It's comforting. At the same time, there is a constant suggestion at the back of my mind, in the tilt of his mouth and the closeness of his breath and my palms pressed against the planes of his perfect chest, of more.

I'm not sure if I'm ready for more. Right now, being here in his strong arms is enough.

"You want breakfast or something?" he mumbles against my forehead, pushing a fallen strand of hair from my face.

"I don't want to bother you anymore than I already have, Nero." I lean back from him, just a little. "I should probably go."

Even as I say it, I want him to make me stay.

"You could never bother me, dolcezza." He gives me a small, crooked smile that makes my insides flutter.

I whisper into his shoulder. "I never knew you could be so incredibly nice, Nero."

"Only for you, carina." A breath against my hair.

And I believe it.

And so, when he asks me to stay and eat something with him, I say okay.

•§•

I'll be back in a couple minutes, because I need to use the bathroom.

"There's one here, you know."

My bare legs suddenly feel rather cold. "I need to brush my teeth."

He raises a curved eyebrow. I bet he thinks that if I leave now, I'll run away for good. "I probably have a spare."

Obviously it's absurd for me to use a brand new toothbrush when I live right next door, but his eyes are soft and they melt right into mine, and I can't say no.

I guess we both think that as soon as I walk out of this apartment, the spell will be broken.

Neither of us is ready for that.

So while he's busy in the kitchen I sneak into his immaculate bathroom to, well... use the bathroom. It feels so strange using his toothpaste. Every little detail tells me something about him, from the smell of his soap to the stunningly expensive bottle of cologne.

It feels so intimate. It makes me curious.

I do what I can to brush my hair and wash my face and I guess when I'm done I look nice enough. Not as nice as him, of course. For some reason I'm so glad that I showered last night, that I don't smell bad, that my skin has been clear the last little while.

Not that I have any plans that require me to smell and look nice, right?

Stop laughing. I already told you that I'm not sure if I'm ready for that.

But when I stare at myself in the mirror, I remember. All those times that it might have, could have happened. All the times I thought about it, when I kissed him, when he held me and it was all fire; burning, hot and consuming and I just wanted more, more more more.

And I remember what it feels like to have someone on top of me, in me, loving me. And it just makes me want.

I let everything flash before my eyes—from the beginning, when I first moved in. The decisions I made, the things I have done, the secrets I have kept. The good, the bad.

For once, it doesn't weigh me down. It doesn't make me so incredibly sad.

I guess I did the best I could, with what I had. I guess it could've been worse.

In that minute, standing there with my bare feet on the cold tile in Nero's spotless apartment, I decide, miraculously, to stop punishing myself.

To forgive, everything.

And I can honestly tell you that I have never, ever felt so incredibly relieved in my entire life.

•§•

He looks up from whatever he's busy doing when I step into the kitchen. The inside of his apartment is so much nicer than mine.

"I'm good. Thanks."

I slide onto a barstool in front of his granite island, watching him whisk together something in a glass bowl, looking as perfect as always.

We stay in silence and I'm content to just study him as he does normal things, in an normal environment. He looks so much like an ordinary person. Except every inch of me knows that he's far from it.

"You need any help?" I rest my chin in my hand, my elbow against the dark stone. His eyes flit up to meet mine, he gives me a small smile.

"No. There's coffee, if you want." He nods his head behind him.

I hop down from the counter and go over to the full, steaming pot where there are already two mugs waiting. I pour for both of us, sliding the cup beside him as he cooks. "Just black?" Somehow I'm already sure he drinks it like me.

A little grin, lighting up his face. It sends me into a glowing haze, makes my insides all jittery. "Thanks."

And he stands there and stirs things into the bowl, grates cheese, dices vegetables. I lean against the counter beside him, just watching. His movements are magical; I could stare at him forever.

"I'm surprised you're still alive, you know." I say it teasingly, thinking about all the things I've been hearing lately on the news. "I mean, they make it sound like you're in huge trouble or something."

He chuckles, sliding his attention away from whatever he's doing, resting those dark, heavy eyes on my face. "Don't sound so disappointed."

That makes me laugh, a little. Just his gaze on me has my face growing warm. "So, you're not in the middle of some kind of big fight with the rest of the mob?"

I can see that just the thought of it wearies him. "I am, but I'd rather not think about it."

Fine by me. I let us stand in silence, waiting for him to say something, ask me something, tell me something. He's still a mystery to me.

"You allergic to anything?"

"Nope."

He turns the stove on, and I watch him pour what I'm guessing is an omelette into the pan, spreading out the edges, sprinkling it with salt, cheddar. I realize how hungry I am.

I also realize that he doesn't really know what to say to me, and I don't know what to say to him either.

It's kinda like we can both remember those last times we met, before everything. I can still recall the things he said, the things I said. How he told me he couldn't get me out of his head. Why can't I keep my hands off of you? I remember leaning into him, letting him hold me. My face heats up just thinking about it.

It still runs through my mind as I pass behind him, when my idiotic, stupid feet slip and I almost go crashing onto the hardwood. But he's there, grabbing me, his arm fast as lightning as it circles my waist. He tugs me upright, against him, steadying me. I meet his eyes and blush, because he's still holding me and I've grabbed onto his arm and we just stand there, close, neither of us willing to let go.

My eyes flit to the heat of his gaze, the curve of his full lips, and I'm sure I'm not imagining it when he takes a quick glance at my mouth.

"Be careful, dolcezza." Rough, low. Definitely a little exasperated. He releases me gently to stand on my own because otherwise the food will burn.

As he flips the omelette onto a plate and pours the rest of the batter into the pan, I stand back and steady myself, breathe. I flush because I can still feel the warmth of him, holding me, through the thin fabric of my loose t-shirt.

Not loose enough. I cross my arms in front of my chest, because I'm not wearing a bra. I can feel the tips of my breasts tighten instinctively, pressing into the material of my shirt. Shit. My body is traitorous, remembers the way he feels, strong and masculine.

I banish those thoughts away, trying not to dwell on the way his muscles strain through his t-shirt.

It's not too long before we sit down to eat, the smell of the amazing, cheesy, eggy goodness a very welcome distraction from... him. He has orange juice and fresh fruit too, and I feel a little spoilt. If I was by myself I'd probably get by on just coffee.

"This is really good. Thank you."

He gives me a small smile. "No problem."

And there is silence, again.

It's only when we're both pretty much done eating that my eyes fall on something very familiar, hanging against the wall beside the table. I must look so incredibly shocked because he glances to where I'm staring, only for it to dawn on him.

No way. "Is that..."

"Yes."

I shake my head, turning to look at him. There's a sparkle in his eyes, a slight tilt to his lips.

"I can't believe you..." And because it's right there, I push away from the table and go look at it, still unable to comprehend that this whole time it was... him.

My best work. It's as beautiful as I remember it. "You bought my painting?"

I don't have to look at him to hear his silent laughter. "I liked it."

Mhm. "It sold for like..." Shit. "A lot of money."

Another chuckle. "I know."

He turns to look at me, watching the pinkness in my cheeks, how I'm full of disbelief and confusion and... flattery. I am so incredibly flattered.

Slowly, I slide back into my chair, across from him. He's amused and it lights up his entire face, makes me warm from head to toe.

"So, you were totally stalking me, weren't you?"

A glimmer of laughter in those dark eyes. "Not exactly."

"Are you seriously trying to tell me that the underboss of the Vancouver mafia spent six grand on a painting because he wanted to support a charity?"

He looks at me so intensely that my mouth stays open, a little. The darkness in his gaze makes my heart do somersaults all over my chest.

"I bought it because it reminds me of you, Rosalina."

Oh.

That pretty much steals the breath from my lungs, leaves me speechless. I just look at him, blushing, and he looks at me, stunning, and I just sit there and melt, right in front of him.

He reaches a hand out, tucking a stray piece of hair behind my ear.

When I finally say something it's just a breathless whisper. "I feel like all I do is give you trouble."

"I could say the same."

That makes me laugh, just little. "I wouldn't disagree."

Silence.

A wry smile. "I am sorry, you know." His eyes catch mine, searching, holding them so I can't let go. "I'm sorry about everything."

And because the choices are either be happy or cry, I give him my most breathtaking smile. "I've already forgiven you for all of it."

It looks like a weight is lifted from his shoulders. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

And it seems like hearing that was what he needed, because the grin he gives me, bright and sparkling and so fricken hot, creates a familiar tug, low in my gut.

Oh God. He makes me want something I didn't even know I was ready for.

Makes me want to be ready.

He averts his gaze, a little to the side, because he knows it.

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