Chapter Nineteen
Ben woke to the smell of coffee. For a moment he thought he’d dreamed it, until the faint clatter of pans and the low hum of someone talking to themselves carried down the hall. He smiled to himself.
Franco.
Ben sat up, dragging a hand over his face. The sheets were still warm from where Franco had been. He could picture him already, barefoot, probably shirtless, his hair doing its wild morning thing as he commandeered Ben’s kitchen as if it was his own.
When he finally walked into the kitchen, the sight matched the image perfectly.
Franco stood at the stove in one of Ben’s shirts, the sleeves pushed up, a spatula in one hand, accompanied by the hiss of the frying pan.
Bacon, toast and coffee were lined up on the counter as though he was orchestrating breakfast service for two.
Franco glanced over his shoulder, his grin blooming at the sight of Ben. “Morning, sleeping beauty.”
Ben leaned against the doorway, feigning gruffness even as his chest tightened. “You’re raiding my fridge.”
Franco snorted. “You had exactly three eggs and a questionable bag of spinach. Not much of a challenge.” Franco flipped the eggs with practiced ease. “You need to grocery shop more, boss.”
The casual boss should’ve stung. Instead, it curled around Ben like something warm and familiar.
He crossed the kitchen, stealing a piece of bacon off the plate. “I usually eat at the restaurant.” Franco swatted at him with the spatula but let him keep the bacon. “And if there’s nothing in the fridge, that’s because I made breakfast for someone recently.”
“Breakfast at home is sacred. It’s the one meal that can set the tone for your whole day.”
Ben poured himself coffee, not bothering to hide his smile. “Is that so?”
“Of course.” Franco slid eggs onto a plate with a flourish. “Dinner is for family, lunch is for work, but breakfast…” He turned then, plate in hand, his expression softening as he looked at Ben. “Breakfast is for someone you actually want to wake up with.”
The words lingered in the small kitchen. For a beat, neither spoke.
Then Franco broke the silence, setting the plate down with mock ceremony. “Eat, before I change my mind and keep it all to myself.”
They ate standing up at the counter, their shoulders brushing occasionally, laughter bubbling up over too-buttered toast and Ben’s tragic attempt at cutting fruit.
If only it could stay like this.
Ben lingered in the quiet, in the illusion that morning could stretch forever, not daring to tug at the thread that would unravel it.
Lunch was kind of slack, and Ben took advantage to grab a bowl of pasta sprinkled generously with parmesan.
Franco breezed into the kitchen. “I’m thinking of going outside and doing a striptease. It might bring in more customers.” He took one look at Ben’s bowl, and grinned. “Ooh, good idea.” He dished up a bowl for himself, ladling something over it from a pan at the rear of the stove.
Raj snorted. “I wouldn’t go down the strip-tease route. It’s cold out there. Your dick will shrivel to the size of a peanut.”
“I bet Ben would warm it for him,” Mina muttered.
Several pairs of eyes focused on her, and her cheeks turned scarlet.
Lexie chuckled. “Mina’s getting bolder. I like it.”
Ben didn’t know how to react, but decided saying nothing was the best move. To his surprise, Franco didn’t take up the gauntlet either. His eyes gleamed, however.
Willow came into the kitchen. “Okay, it’s officially dead out there.”
“It’ll pick up later,” Franco remarked in a confident tone.
She took one look at Ben’s lunch and groaned. “I’m starving.” She helped herself to some pasta, then leaned against the counter. “So, Lexie… are you going to come clean about your mystery weekend plans?”
Lexie’s ears turned pink. “Not so mysterious,” she grumbled. “It’s just dinner with Priya.”
Willow’s face lit up. “ The Priya? The one from the wine tasting a few months ago?”
Lexie tried to look annoyed, but her mouth tugged upward anyway. “Yes. That one.”
Willow clapped her hands together. “Sweet. You have Franco to thank for that, you know. He practically shoved you into getting her phone number.”
Franco rolled his eyes. “You were both standing there making eyes over the pinot and refusing to say anything. Someone had to save the poor sommelier from dying of second-hand embarrassment.”
Ben chuckled. “Is this a string to your bow I know nothing about? Franco Rossi, Matchmaker?”
Willow laughed. “That’s nothing.” She glanced at Lexie. “ Remember when he set up Chloe with that barista from around the corner? They’re still together. What’s it been now, a year?”
“Year and a half,” Franco corrected, with a touch of pride.
“His skills aren’t limited to staff,” Willow said with a smile.
“He has a gift for getting customers talking to each other.” She frowned.
“What were their names? The guys who both ate alone that time, until Franco worked his magic? Then they spent the rest of the night sitting at the corner table, drinking wine and talking until closing time.”
Lexie’s brow furrowed for a moment, and then she grinned. “Leo and Javier. They were in here a few weeks ago.” Her eyes sparkled. “Wearing matching rings.”
Ben blinked. “You weren’t kidding about him having a gift.”
“And don’t forget Paul and Melissa,” Willow added. “Remember Marco’s trivia night?”
Ben frowned. “Trivia night?”
She gave a fond smile. “One of Marco’s bright ideas that wasn’t really so bright.” She glanced at Franco. “He nudged two participants into talking to each other.”
Franco’s flushed face was adorable.
Willow grinned. “Ben’s got the right idea. You should open a side business, you know that? Franco’s Matchmaking Service. Guaranteed results.”
Raj turned around, his head tilted to one side. “Funny how you could sort out everyone else’s love life, but not your own.” He coughed. “Past tense, of course.”
The kitchen went quiet for a second, and Franco’s grin faltered slightly, like a candle guttering in a draft. He covered it quickly with a shrug. “Eh. Easier to fix other people’s disasters than your own, right?” Then he shoved another forkful of pasta in his mouth.
Willow steered the conversation back to Lexie’s upcoming date, but Ben hadn’t missed that flicker across Franco’s face.
He leaned against the door frame, studying him.
The way Franco laughed along too loudly, the way he waved his hand as though the subject was closed, the way his eyes didn’t quite meet anyone else’s for a moment.
Ben knew walls when he saw them. He’d spent years constructing his own.
Why does it bother me so much, seeing them in Franco?
It was nearly midnight, and they were stretched out on Ben’s couch, takeout containers on the coffee table, filled with what remained of their late meal. A single lamp illuminated them, and Franco could still hear the faint sounds of the city: Adelaide wasn’t ready to call it a night yet.
Franco’s head rested on the arm of the couch, one hand absently twirling the stem of an empty wine glass. Ben sat at the other end, his long legs crossed, watching him with that quiet focus Franco was getting used to.
Franco chuckled. “Do I have food on my face?”
Ben didn’t answer for a moment. “You’re good at it, you know.”
Franco arched his eyebrows. “At what, eating all the spring rolls?”
“Matchmaking,” Ben said simply. “Everyone seems to think you’ve got a gift for it.”
Franco gave a quick, theatrical shrug. “What can I say? I’ve got an eye. I see people, I see what’s missing, and so—” he snapped his fingers “—I fill the gap. Easy.”
Ben didn’t look away. “And was what Raj said accurate? Or can you apply this gift to your own life?”
That landed harder than Franco expected. He tried to laugh it off, but the sound felt brittle. “No. I’m a disaster zone.” He gestured to himself. “I’d never inflict this mess on someone willingly.”
“Franco.” Ben’s tone wasn’t sharp, but he managed to make his name a question.
Franco lowered his gaze and stared at his glass .
If I wait long enough, he might drop the subject.
“I’m still here. Still waiting.”
Franco set the glass down with a sigh before bringing his feet up onto the seat cushion, his arms around his knees, his stomach tight.
“You ever think maybe some people aren’t meant to have that kind of story?
That maybe the role they’re meant to play is the best friend, the wingman, the guy who makes sure everyone else gets their happily-ever-after?
” He shrugged, forcing lightness into his voice.
“That’s my role. It’s safe. No one leaves, no one gets hurt. ”
Ben’s jaw ticked, but he didn’t interrupt.
Franco lowered his voice. “Look, I know I’m loud. I flirt, I laugh, I… distract. But all of that?” He gestured vaguely at himself once more. “It’s easier than letting someone get close enough to see what’s underneath. Because if they do, and then they decide I’m not worth it…”
His throat seized, unable to finish the sentence.
Ben leaned forward, his forearms braced on his knees. “You think you’re not worth it?”
Franco wanted to make a joke, to throw back something sharp or ridiculous. But Ben had spoken in such a gentle tone that he couldn’t bring himself to do that.
“Sometimes,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper, his chest aching.
The silence that followed felt heavy but not suffocating, as though he was standing at the edge of something vast.
Ben shifted a little closer, reached out, and laid his hand over Franco’s. He didn’t squeeze it, but let it rest there, a reminder of his presence.
Ben’s gaze met his.
“You’re wrong.”
Franco’s first instinct was to roll his eyes, to dismiss it with a grin, but the look in Ben’s eyes stopped him cold. It was serious, unwavering, as though he was staking something real on those two words .
And for once, Franco didn’t have a comeback.
His hand twitched under Ben’s, more a reflex than intention, but he let it stay, enjoying the warmth of Ben’s fingers. It was a simple gesture, yet it made his chest tighten in a way he hadn’t expected.
“You know,” Ben said softly, “you don’t always have to be the one holding everyone else up.”
Franco’s lips twitched into the smallest smile, laced with uncertainty. He wanted to argue, to tell Ben he was fine, that he could manage, that he thrived in the chaos he created.
The truth was lodged somewhere between his ribs, warm and stubborn.
“I’m not sure I know how to let someone see what’s in here.” He gestured to his heart.
The one thing he usually kept hidden.
Ben brushed his thumb lightly over Franco’s knuckles. “You’re here. You’re letting me in. That’s enough.”
Franco’s throat tightened, but he didn’t pull back. Because there, in the quiet of Ben’s living room, with the memory of their shared nights, the small intimacies, the laughter, and the lingering touches, he had an epiphany.
This was more than desire, more than heat.
He’d fallen for Ben Whitaker.
Ben leaned forward, both hands on Franco’s now. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this way before,” he admitted, his voice a little rough. “But I’m not scared of it. Not with you.”
And in that tiny, almost imperceptible moment—the first crack in the armour, the first admission that their connection was real, that Ben felt it too—Franco realised something terrifying and exhilarating all at once: he didn’t want to hide anymore, not from Ben, and not from himself.
Whatever this was, whatever it had become, he knew he’d risk the fall a thousand times just to stay in the space Ben made for him.
“Franco.” Ben’s voice cracked. “I want you. I need you. ”
Franco could hear it in Ben’s voice, and he realised that same need burned in him.
“Then have me.”