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Something warm unfolds in my chest. I’ve spent most of my life negotiating. Making myself smaller, accommodating, finding the space between what I want and what someone else is willing to give. This—saying what I want and having it respected without a fight—is so new it almost hurts.
He tells me about a meeting he has later today, something with shipping containers and tariffs that I only half-understand but nod along to anyway because I like the sound of his voice when he’s not being careful with it.
The conversation lulls. The silence that follows is easy, the kind that doesn’t need filling. The gray thickens. Then it thins. And then, so slowly I almost miss the moment it happens, the gray turns gold.
The first real light hits the highest buildings first, painting them in pale gold that spreads downward like honey poured over stone. It’s not pretty in the way postcards are pretty. It’s raw. Messy.
The kind of sunrise that happens when the air is cold enough to hurt your lungs and the city hasn’t decided whether it wants to be beautiful today or just functional. But it’s real, and we’re watching it together. Something about that feels significant in a way I can’t articulate.
This is his solitude. The place he comes when sleep abandons him.
Suddenly acutely aware that I’m intruding on his alone time, I ask, “Did I ruin it?”
“Ruin what?”
“Your quiet.”
Domenico doesn’t answer right away. His hand strokes my back through the blanket, slow and steady, and I can feel him thinking. Measuring his words the way he always does, finding the exact ones he wants before he lets them out.
“The quiet is better with you in it.” Just a fact, delivered in that rough, measured voice that doesn’t know how to be anything but honest.
He’s quiet for another moment. The sunrise is spreading now, painting the rooftops in gold and throwing long shadows across the streets below. When he speaks again, his voice is lower.
“I’m getting fucking addicted to having you around, Kira.”
My heart stutters. I keep my eyes on the skyline, on the light moving across glass and brick, because if I look at him right now I might do something stupid like cry.
“You’re not too bad yourself,” I tease around a yawn.
Even though I don’t want to force more meaning into his words than what he’s giving me, I can’t help but wonder if this is the Domenico DeLuca seal of approval. It’s not like it’s a declaration of love, and I’m grateful for that. But it still matters, it still means something.
“Earlier you asked if I wanted to talk about Mom,” I whisper, determined to give him the same honesty he’s giving me.
“Mm.”
“I…” Trailing off, I absentmindedly pick at a hangnail on my left index finger. “Knowing she’s in Dr. Morgan’s hands has been a bigger relief than I ever imagined.”
Domenico doesn’t interrupt as I explain that having someone look after Mom is both a source of guilt and relief for me.
“It’s hard not to feel like I’ve abandoned her,” I sigh, squinting against the brightening sky. “But it’s also the first time since the accident that I’ve been able to… just be me.”
When Domenico suggests we go back inside, I’m not ready to leave his embrace, and I tell him as much. That earns me a genuine smile.
21
Kira
“I’m forgetting something,” I mumble as I button my caramel-colored coat. “I know I am.”
I mentally go through my list of things already in the car. The four casseroles, six dozen cookies, three loaves of bread, two pasta dishes, and a tray of…
“Did you see if Donna or Vinny grabbed the pastry things?”
“What pastry things?” Domenico asks, his tone innocent, but the smirk he can’t hide gives him away.
“That’s not funny,” I gripe.
“They’re in the car already.” Domenico leans against the island in a navy blue suit that makes his eyes look even more intense than usual. “Donna put them in the car twenty minutes ago.”
