His Bambina

Chapter 37

The training yard was buzzing again and Fabian has once again set the music too loud. The early fall sun is punishing, the air thick with heat and competition, and I was already regretting wearing black. My knuckles stung from hours of sparring but the ache felt good. It's enough to keep me grounded and focused on everything except what's behind me. Or more like who.

Vincenzo was here again. As always.

Sitting on the low wall in the corner, water bottle in hand, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt. His eyes weren't on the fight in front of him between Sergio and Fabian. They were on me.

They are always on me.

And as always I tell myself I don't care. That I don't feel it. But I do. I feel every glance like it was heat sliding across my skin.

We haven't spoken since the coffee. I never thanked him. Never acknowledged the note. But I left the mug on the counter afterward. Washed and clean. In the same spot he'd left it.

I don't know if he noticed. But I hoped he did.

After sparring, I peel off my gloves and toss them aside, ignoring the sting in my wrists. My friends are still bickering in the background about who had landed more clean hits. I roll my eyes at their banter and move toward the edge of the yard, grabbing a towel to wipe the sweat from my neck and somehow find myself standing just a few feet from him.

He doesn't move. Doesn't speak. Is he... holding his breath?

I can feel the tension ripple through the air between us.

I glance at him.

He looks up at me. Eyes steady and careful as if he's waiting for me to pull away.

But I don't.

Instead, I toss the towel over my shoulder and jerk my chin toward the house. "You made that coffee exactly right."

His brow lifts slightly. "I pay attention."

A beat of silence.

"I noticed," I say quietly.

And then I walk away. Not far, not fast, but as I do, I let myself look back once.

He is still watching me.

This time, though, there is something different in his expression.

Hopeful.

The next night it takes me longer than usual to fall asleep. That look of hope blossoms something similar inside my ribcage. I don't sleep long however, with the familiar melody rousing me from the darkness.

At first, I thought I was dreaming.

But the music was real. Faint, floating through my open window like a ghost from another life. Our song.

The one we used to dance to in his bedroom's mini kitchen. A time when we believed love could survive the chaos of our lives.

I sit up, my heart hammering. My room is dark except for the silver-blue cast of moonlight and the soft, steady rhythm of falling rain outside. The melody grows clearer as I approach the window. The beautiful melody is coming from the garden below.

And then I see him.

Vincenzo is standing there. His shirt is soaked, arms hanging at his sides, eyes tilted toward the window like he already knew I'd come.

I don't remember deciding to move. Suddenly I'm at the door, down the stairs, then barefoot on the wet stone.

The rain is cool on my skin, grounding me in the moment. He doesn't speak as I approach him, and neither do I. The music sings through a small speaker set on the stone bench, its glow pulsing gently with each beat.

He looks at me as if he were holding his breath. And then...

He holds out his hand.

The action isn't demanding. Not expectant.

Just... open.

I stare at the invitation for a long time, heart pounding. Then I step into him, slipping my fingers into his, and let him pull me close.

Then, we begin to move.

There is no hint of choreography, no rhythm but each other.

I no longer feel the drizzle of the rain, only the feel of his hand on my waist. His breath against my temple. My head rests against his chest as we sway under the rain like we are frozen in time.

"I've missed this," I whisper.

He exhales slowly, "I've missed you."

I close my eyes, gripping the soaked fabric of his shirt.

"I hated you for what you did," I breathe out, voice shaking. "For threatening my family. For leaving me in the dark. For... hurting me."

His muscles tense beneath my touch.

"I wanted to forget you. I tried so hard."

"I know," he mumbles into my hair. "You had every right."

"But I couldn't," I confess. "Even though I wanted to. You still live in every corner of me."

He holds me tighter, one hand sliding up my back.

"I never stopped loving you," he said. "Not for a second. But I kept thinking love wasn't enough. That you'd be safer without me. And yet-"

I look up at him, rain streaming down both our faces, mingling with the tears I wasn't trying to hide.

"I never wanted to be safe from your world," I said. "I just wanted you. Even when you were broken or afraid."

He cups my face, gently, reverently, his thumb brushing my cheek.

"I'm still figuring out how to be worthy of you," he said. "But I will spend the rest of my life trying. If you'll let me."

I don't answer with words.

Instead, the last bit of rationality and hesitance snaps as I lean in and kiss him. Soft, rain-drenched, and honest. The kind of kiss that whispers 'you still have me, even if everything else burns'.

He kisses me back like he is finally breathing for the first time in months.

And as the music swells, and the rain falls harder, we dance. We move slowly, rain-drenched and free.

No more lies.

No more walls.

Just us.

Forgiven.

And still in love.