HIS

Chapter 11

Olivia's POV

I woke up feeling surprisingly well-rested, even though I'd spent the night on a couch. It was ridiculously comfortable—warm, soft, and secure. At some point during the night, I stirred to find the TV turned off and my head resting on Domenico's chest in the dimly lit living room. The space was quiet and still, wrapped in that deep, peaceful kind of silence. I was too exhausted to shift positions, so I simply closed my eyes again and slipped right back into sleep.

Being cuddled up next to someone like that felt... natural. As if it was exactly where I was meant to be. That simple closeness, the warmth of his body beside mine—it settled something inside me that I hadn't realized needed soothing.

He really is a good man. And after hearing what he'd gone through with his ex, it's no wonder he became cynical about relationships. Still, last night, he let his guard down. I saw the real version of him—not the mafia boss, not the guarded, sharp-eyed man—but someone vulnerable and quietly wounded. And if I ever ran into that ex-girlfriend of his? I swear I'd deliver one solid slap. Just for the pain she caused and the look in his eyes when he spoke her name.

I won't lie—I like him. And I've never been the type to hide how I feel about someone. But the truth is... I'm scared. Scared of these unfamiliar emotions that seem to surface every time I'm near him.

He's clearly experienced when it comes to women. He carries himself with the confidence of someone who's seen and had it all. Meanwhile, I have no experience—not in relationships, and definitely not in navigating close connections with men.

Part of me worries that I'm being naïve. That I'm slipping into something one-sided—letting my guard down for someone who could easily have anyone he wanted. What if this is just a game to him? What if I end up hurt because I dared to hope?

This morning, I stirred from sleep to find him walking in from the side hallway, probably the kitchen, judging by the heavenly scent wafting through the air.

He greeted me with a teasing reminder about my drooling, and honestly, I wanted to sink into the floor from sheer embarrassment. But he didn't flinch. He didn't laugh or look disgusted. He brushed past it like it didn't matter.

And maybe that's part of what's breaking down my defenses—he sees me, even when I'm at my least polished, and somehow still sticks around.

There's something about his hugs that stirs something deep inside me—something I didn't realize I'd been craving for most of my life. I got one earlier when he helped me up for breakfast, and it lingered in my chest longer than I expected. I've been starved of affection for so long that the warmth of a simple embrace feels like luxury. Maybe it's because the only true tenderness I remember came from my mother... and she's been gone for fifteen years.

After breakfast, I went upstairs for a quick shower. The water helped wake me fully, and I dressed without fuss before joining him again. If this is what being cared for feels like—gentle routines, soft words, shared space—I'd consider staying close to him for a while longer. Maybe even longer than I planned.

We spent the morning in his office, side by side. I had requested my professors to send over my assignments so I could keep pace. I need to maintain my grades if I want to hold onto my scholarship—that's something I refuse to compromise. My injured hand is finally starting to feel functional again, even though it's still a little sensitive. I keep it protected in a removable cast, just to be safe.

After a few focused hours, I agreed to accompany him to his work office. As we walked out, I couldn't help but gape at the car he chose. It's a stunning machine—sleek, polished, powerful. He offered it to me mid-argument while we were on the road. I didn't accept, and I won't, no matter how persistent he is. He doesn't know that yet.