The morning came too soon. The rain had stopped, but the sky still carried the color of it, dull and bruised. I woke to the smell of coffee and the faint sound of a door creaking somewhere down the hall. For a second, I forgot where I was—then I saw the gun on the nightstand and it all came rushing back.
I sat up slowly, the blanket slipping off my shoulders. My lips still burned from last night. My mind wouldn’t stop replaying it—the way he kissed me like he was trying to erase himself, like he wanted to drown in something other than guilt.
When I walked out, Matteo was already up, cleaning his gun on the couch. He looked at me once, said nothing, then went back to work. The silence between us said enough.
In the kitchen, Damiano stood by the window, his shirt half-buttoned, coffee mug
