Chapter 6 (Elena's POV)
1396 Words
The rain kept us in the library after dinner.
Rosa had gone upstairs. Marco had left an hour earlier. For once, there were no footsteps beyond the door, no telephone ringing from Luca’s pocket.
He sat beside me on the sofa, his jacket folded over the arm.
I had been reading the same paragraph for several minutes.
“You can turn the page,” he said.
“So can you.”
His book was still closed.
I smiled.
He took mine gently from my hands and set it beside his.
“Come here.”
I moved closer, and he kissed me.
There was no hurried glance toward the doorway afterward. He stayed near, brushing his thumb along my cheek before kissing me again.
I rested my hand at the back of his neck.
Something changed then.
His arm tightened around me, drawing me nearer. The careful distance he usually kept vanished, and when I whispered his name, he answered with another kiss.
I had grown used to him stopping after a few seconds.
This time, he didn’t.
His hand slipped beneath the hem of my shirt, warm against my waist. I caught my breath.
He paused.
“All right?”
“Yes.”
I touched his face so he would look at me.
“Yes, Luca.”
He kissed me slowly, then with a hunger that made me forget the rain and the books and the open door.
I wanted to be closer. I wanted him to stop measuring every movement.
My fingers curled into his shirt.
Then he went still.
At first, I thought I had hurt myself without noticing, that he had felt me flinch.
But his gaze had moved past me.
To the photograph on the shelf.
Luca and my father stood on a fishing boat, young and sunburned, laughing at something.
His hand withdrew.
“Luca?”
He moved away from me.
The space between us felt cold.
“We need to stop.”
I lowered my hands.
“Did I do something?”
“No.”
“Then look at me.”
He stood instead.
I pulled my shirt straight, suddenly conscious of every small movement.
A minute earlier, he had been holding me as though he couldn’t bear to let go.
Now he was reaching for his jacket.
“Please don’t do this again,” I said.
He stopped.
“You promised you would speak to me.”
His jaw tightened.
“I know.”
“Then speak.”
For a moment, I thought he would sit down.
Instead, he said, “Goodnight, Elena.”
The door closed quietly behind him.
I wished he had slammed it.
The next morning, his place at breakfast was empty.
“He left early,” Rosa said.
I buttered toast I didn’t want.
By afternoon, I had composed three messages and deleted two.
Can we talk tonight?
His answer came twenty minutes later.
I’ll be late. Please don’t wait up.
I stared at the word please.
As though courtesy made it hurt less.
The following day, I heard his voice in the entrance hall. By the time I reached it, the front door was closing.
That evening, he missed dinner again.
Rosa stopped making excuses.
I was grateful for that.
On the third morning, I found fresh flowers in my room.
I looked at them for a long time.
Then I carried them into the sitting room, where I wouldn’t have to wake up beside them.
Just before dinner, I heard Luca’s study door close.
I waited until the footsteps in the corridor faded.
Then I went to him.
He answered my knock with a distracted, “Come in.”
When he saw me, he rose.
“Elena.”
“So you remember my name.”
He set down his pen.
“I was going to—”
“Don’t.”
I shut the door behind me.
For nearly three days, I had imagined this conversation. In every version, I was composed.
Standing in front of him, I could barely keep my hands still.
“If you don’t want this, tell me. I’ll believe you. But you don’t get to kiss me like that and then make me chase you through the house for an explanation.”
He looked tired.
I refused to let that soften me.
“You’re right,” he said.
“That isn’t an explanation.”
“No.”
I waited.
He came around the desk but stopped several feet away.
“What we’re doing is wrong.”
The words landed hard.
I folded my arms.
“Because?”
“Your father is my best friend.”
“I know who my father is.”
“Elena.”
“He was your best friend when you kissed me.”
“Yes.”
“And yesterday. And the day before.”
“I know.”
“Then why am I the one you’re punishing?”
His expression changed.
“I’m not trying to punish you.”
“What would you call it?”
He looked away.
I swallowed against the ache in my throat.
“You left me sitting there wondering whether I’d imagined everything.”
“You didn’t.”
“Whether you regretted touching me.”
His eyes returned to mine.
“I regret walking out.”
“But you kept doing it.”
“Yes.”
There was nowhere for him to hide in that answer.
For a few seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then he rested a hand against the edge of his desk.
“Your father has trusted me for more than twenty years. When he left you here, he believed there was nothing in this house he needed to worry about.”
“Do I need to worry about you?”
“No.”
“Then stop talking as though wanting me makes you dangerous to me.”
His hand tightened on the wood.
“It makes me dishonest with him.”
That quiet answer took some of the anger out of me.
I understood it. I wished I didn’t.
“Then that’s the problem we should have been discussing,” I said. “Instead, you decided I wasn’t worth speaking to.”
“You are worth speaking to.”
“You haven’t behaved like it.”
He lowered his head.
“No.”
I looked toward the window until I trusted my voice again.
“I’m twenty-six, Luca. I know there are consequences. I haven’t forgotten them because you kissed me.”
“You’re recovering from something terrible. You’re away from your life, in my house—”
“And you think that means I don’t know what I want?”
“I think I should have been more careful.”
“With me, or with yourself?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
“Both.”
I let out a shaky breath.
For the first time, he looked as lost as I felt.
“I can care about my father and still want you,” I said. “Those things are both true.”
“They are.”
“Then don’t make me ashamed of one because of the other.”
He took a step toward me.
I stepped back.
He stopped at once.
It hurt to see him notice.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
I nodded, though I wasn’t ready to make it easy for him.
“Do you want me to leave?”
“No.”
The answer came so quickly that we both went quiet.
“Then what do you want?”
His gaze held mine.
For a moment, I saw the man from the library again.
“That,” he said, “is what I’ve been trying not to think about.”
I pressed my lips together.
Nearly three days of silence, and there it was.
He wanted me.
He simply hoped that wanting would become easier if I had to bear it alone.
“Well, I’ve had plenty of time to think.”
“Elena—”
“I won’t come looking for you again. If you want to speak to me, you know where I am.”
I opened the door.
He said my name once more, softly enough that I almost turned.
But I had asked him to stay in the library.
I had asked him to talk.
This time, I left him to decide what came next.
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