Letters To Rome

7

I stand frozen on his doorstep, my palms sweating against my jacket. He is there, in the doorway, hair still damp and messy, a towel slung around his neck and pajama pants hanging low. He looks ridiculous and perfect all at once. The sight of him knocks the air out of me for a second.

"Hi," he says, like he's asking the weather. He smiles that easy smile, the one I keep replaying in my head. My heart stutters. I have so many things I want to say, but none of them make sense. My mouth goes dry.

"I'm sorry," I blurt before I think. "I—it's late. I didn't realize— I shouldn't have come." I can feel my voice trip on the words. I take a step back, already turning, embarrassed and feeling ridiculous.

He catches my wrist with one hand, gentle but firm. The skin of his palm is warm. That small contact shoots something straight down into my stomach.

"Wait," he says. He pulls me a little closer so the doorway frames us both. He's up close, I can smell him. He's wearing Dior Sauvage.

"Why did you leave this morning?" he asks, not accusatory, just curious, eyes serious for the first time. He has his arms leaning on the doorway. I blink.

"I—" I say everything and nothing. "You weren't there, so I thought I'd wait, but then I didn't know if I should wait. You didn't... uh, leave a number." At this point, I sound stupid. He looks at me like he has been waiting for me to give a better answer.

Then he tilts his head and says, "You didn't eat the breakfast I left."

I feel heat rise to my face. "I didn't know it was for me," I lie, because the alternative is to say I panicked and left and then walked home like an idiot, and that sounds worse somehow. Also, I had obviously read the written note on the table telling me to eat the breakfast he prepared...

He smiles, more amused than angry. "Who else would it be for?"

It's ridiculous how easy his smile makes me want to tell him everything. Instead, I let out a laugh that is too loud for someone who just broke her own rules by showing up at a stranger's house at midnight.

"Well, I'm sure there will be more opportunities for that," I blurted out and instantly regretted it. I sound like a stalkeeeeeer.

"Come in," he says, stepping back to let me pass, motioning me inside. He then stared deeply into my eyes with that deep blue gaze and smiled, "I'm not going to bed yet."

The apartment is quiet and warm, the way a place feels when someone has been living in it long enough for it to forget strangers. Lights are low, and there's a faint, delicious smell of garlic and tomatoes from the kitchen. My stomach twists—hungry again, because everything in me is exposed and hungry and jittery and aaaah, of course my stomach has to growl right this second...

I cover my stomach with both hands like it would stop it from rumbling, but he just scoffs at the sound of it and heads to the kitchen. He moves like he has practiced domesticity, like pulling a chair, setting a plate, boiling water on instinct.

There's a pan on the stove with a handful of pasta swimming in a simple sauce. He reaches for a wooden spoon and grins at me with that half-smirk he hides behind when he's teasing but not really joking. "I was making something," he says with that perfect accent of his. "You want to eat? It's nothing special, but it's warm."

I want to say no. I want to say I should go home and fix this and sleep and stop being dramatic or annoying. Instead, I sit at the counter because my legs feel like jelly.

He scoops pasta onto two plates, swirls a little olive oil, sprinkles cheese, and hands one to me like it's the most natural thing in the world. Let me just say, this man's food is amazing. It is better than a lot of the restaurants I went here in Italy. Not sure if it's because I like him or if it's because he's actually a really good cook.