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I push the door open and step outside.

October in Boston doesn’t mess around. The wind cuts through the blanket and the thin cotton of Domenico’s shirt as if they’re nothing, and I shiver, pulling the fabric tighter around my shoulders.

The heaters are doing their best—three of them mounted along the ceiling, casting warm circles of light across the terrace—but the air still has teeth.

Domenico sits directly beneath one of them.

He’s in a chair against the wall, one leg stretched out, the other bent at the knee. I’m surprised that he’s dressed in his normal clothes, and not something like sweats after having already undressed for bed.

Then again, Domenico seems to wear suits 90% of the time.

Right now, though, his tie is undone, hanging loose around his neck, and his suit jacket is nowhere in sight. Just the white dress shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, the tattoos on his forearms visible even in the dim light.

A glass of amber liquid sits on the small table beside him, half-empty. A cigar rests between two fingers, the smoke curling up into the heater’s glow. And in his other hand, an old book with a cracked leather spine and pages that look like they might crumble if you turned them too hard.

He doesn’t look up when I step onto the balcony. Doesn’t need to. I know he heard me the second the door slid open.

Instead of asking if I can stay, I walk straight over to his chair and settle sideways across his lap, tucking my legs up and pulling the blanket around both of us. His body is warm through the shirt, solid and steady, and his arm moves automatically to circle my waist, holding me against his chest.

His surprise is quiet, but I feel it in the way his muscles tense for half a second before relaxing. His fingers tighten on my hip.

“You said you wouldn’t disappear,” I say. No preamble. Just the accusation, dropped between us like a stone.

Domenico looks at me. The heater light catches the silver at his temples, the shadow of stubble along his jaw. His eyes are dark in this light, almost black instead of blue.

“You were tossing and turning forever, baby.” His thumb brushes my hip through the blanket. “So I didn’t want to wake you.”

“Next time, wake me.”

He considers that. Nods once.

“How long have you been up?” I ask, curiously.

Sighing, he runs a hand down his face. “Almost three hours.”

“Wow.” The word comes out like an absentminded mutter.

“Do you want to talk about your mom?” he asks, completely changing the subject. His voice is careful. Measured. The way he talks when he’s trying not to push.

I immediately shake my head. “Not right now,” I say. “I just want to be here with you.”

Rather than pushing, he tightens his arm around my waist and takes a slow drag from the cigar. The smoke smells rich and woody, nothing like the cigarettes my dad used to smoke.

I reach for his whiskey glass and take a sip before he can stop me. The burn is immediate and vicious. Fire all the way down, pooling in my stomach like I’ve swallowed a lit match. I cough, eyes watering, and thrust the glass back at him.

“Yep,” I say as though I’m confirming something. “I still don’t like it.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Then stop drinking it.”

“It tastes like paint thinner,” I add, scrunching up my nose.

He takes the whiskey back and finishes what’s left in one smooth swallow. Like it’s water. Like his throat isn’t made of the same tissue as mine.

I eye the book in his hand. The pages are yellowed, the text small and dense. “What are you reading?”

He holds it up so I can see the cover. The leather is cracked along the spine, the gold lettering faded almost to nothing.

“Is it good?” I ask.