Chapter Twenty-Three
Franco had spent the whole bloody day ping-ponging between soaring elation and gut-punching dread.
On one hand: Chef Gallo. Florence. The kind of stage people killed for, the kind that launched careers, opened doors, put your name on the map.
He should’ve been bouncing off the walls, planning every detail, counting down the days until he boarded a plane.
Because the minutes were ticking by, faster and faster.
And yet…
Every time he thought about telling Ben, the memory of that quiet “It has to be your decision” came rushing back.
Not a fight, not a plea, not even an argument.
Nothing but steady positive support, as though Ben had plucked his own heart out and set it aside because Franco’s dream mattered more.
Franco had expected—what? Anger? Jealousy?
At least a Don’t go, not yet. Something that proved Ben wanted him here as much as Franco wanted to stay.
Instead, he’d been given dignity and respect. And now Franco didn’t know what to do with it.
By the time the dinner rush wound down, his nerves were shredded. Raj hadn’t said a word about their earlier conversation, hadn’t even dropped a knowing look in his direction, and Franco was grateful for that. He hadn’t told any of the others. This mess of elation and anguish was his alone to bear.
But he couldn’t keep circling like this. He needed to know. Needed to feel with his own hands, his own body, that what he and Ben had wasn’t fragile, wasn’t something that could be undone by three months and a few thousand miles.
He’d left as soon as the restaurant closed, needing some time and space to frame his thoughts, to focus. After a shower and a change of clothing, he realised there was something he had yet to do.
Reply to Gallo’s email.
Franco opened it on his phone, his fingers shaking as he typed his acceptance. He paused before clicking Send , his heart pounding.
I’m really doing this.
Then it was finally on its way, and Franco’s future took a different path.
It was time to see Ben.
Franco climbed the last flight of stairs to Ben’s flat, his pulse loud in his ears.
He carried nothing but a small backpack slung over one shoulder, the unspoken weight of his decision heavier than any luggage.
He paused at the door, staring at the brass number, familiar now in a way it hadn’t been weeks ago.
His heart thudded against his ribs, not from the climb but from everything he wanted to say.
He wasn’t there for tea or quiet conversation. Tonight, he needed Ben to look at him and prove this was real. That if Franco left, he’d be coming back to something worth returning to.
Franco lifted a hand, letting it hover for a heartbeat, then knocked softly. His mouth was dry, his stomach tight, but the decision was made: he was going to spend the night.
One way or another, he had to know.
As soon as he was through the front door of his flat, Ben had thrown himself at the dishes, scrubbing harder than necessary. Then he’d tackled the laundry. Anything to keep from thinking about the hollow ache in his chest. The clink of crockery, the hiss of the tap, the scent of detergent…
Distractions, nothing more.
But when the last plate was rinsed and stacked, and the clothes tumbling in the drier, he found himself standing there, staring at nothing, the silence pressing against him.
Franco’s absence pressed harder.
He told himself it was better this way. He wasn’t the kind of man who begged.
If Franco’s dream was in Florence, then Ben would damn well respect it, even if it meant tearing himself open in the process.
That was what caring about someone meant, wasn’t it?
Letting them go, even when every cell in your body screamed at you to hold on.
Then why is my heart so fucking heavy?
There was a knock at the front door, and the sound cut through the flat like a spark, jolting him. His pulse leapt, thundering in his ears. Too late for neighbours, too deliberate to be chance.
Before he even reached the door, he knew who would be standing there.
He opened it, and sure enough, there was Franco.
Restless energy rolled off him, his hair still damp from a shower, his coat open as though he’d thrown it on in a hurry. Those eyes—the ones that always seemed to give him away no matter how hard he tried to hide—held uncertainty, maybe even an apology.
“Can I come in?”
Ben’s throat seized, and he stepped aside.
Franco walked into the living room. Ben indicated the couch, and he perched on the edge of the seat cushion as though he wasn’t sure if he belonged there anymore.
Ben sat in the armchair facing him, rather than next to him, forcing his hands to stay folded, his features to portray a mask of calm when inside a storm raged.
God, all he wanted to do was reach out, grab hold of Franco, and beg him to stay, plead with him not to walk away from this thing between them that felt more alive than anything Ben had touched in years.
But love—if that was what raged through him, stole his breath, and made his heart pound—wasn’t about keeping someone caged.
It was about letting them choose.
Setting them free.
Ben waited for the tension across Franco’s shoulders to ease, but they remained taut, his eyes darting, restless, as though searching the room for an anchor point to tether himself to. For a second Ben thought he’d bolt. He half-expected him to say something polite, something safe, and leave.
Instead, Franco drew in a shaky breath. His gaze finally settled on Ben. “I didn’t come here to talk about Florence,” he said quietly, his tone bordering on fierce. “I came because I need to know this is real. That we’re real.”
The air sparked between them.
Ben’s chest tightened, his throat dry. He couldn’t form words, but he didn’t have to, because Franco was already moving, bridging the small gulf of space between them, kneeling in front of Ben, his hands trembling as he reached for him.
That first brush of fingers, the cautious way Franco leaned forward…
Ben hovered between fear and hope. Their lips met in a tentative first kiss, as if they were both testing the waters.
Franco’s hand trembled against Ben’s cheek, and Ben stilled, afraid even the smallest move might break the fragile thread tethering them together.
When Franco kissed him again, only harder this time, something inside Ben gave way.
A sound rose in his throat, half relief, half hunger, and every nerve in his body woke at once.
His hands unclasped, one finding Franco’s jaw, the other his hip, pulling him closer until he was nearly in Ben’s lap.
The air felt too thin, ev erything tightened, heat surged, and restraint cracked under the weight of every hour that had passed since their conversation.
Ben hadn’t let himself want like this in years, not with this degree of urgency, this recklessness. And yet, with Franco pressed against him, every instinct screamed this was right, that nothing had ever fit more naturally.
Slow burn , Ben reminded himself. Don’t rush. But Franco’s need, his raw urgency, was impossible to resist.
Not that Ben wanted to.
Franco shifted fully into Ben’s lap, straddling him. The kiss deepened, heat flooding through Ben as he slid his hands under the hem of Franco’s shirt, his fingertips grazing warm skin.
Franco shivered, his mouth breaking from Ben’s only long enough to whisper, “I needed this—I needed you .”
The words undid him. Ben kissed him back, slow and deliberate, even as his pulse raced. “Then stay,” he breathed against his mouth, though he knew it wasn’t fair to ask. “Stay tonight.”
Franco’s answer came in the press of his body, the way he rolled his hips just enough to make Ben’s head fall back, a groan breaking free.
And we have ignition .
He hadn’t known what he’d find when he came here, whether Ben would turn him away, whether the fragile thing between them would already be gone. But now, perched in Ben’s lap, his chest pressed to Ben’s firm body, Franco knew.
It was real.
Ben’s kiss was steady, grounding, but his hands betrayed him, restless, hungry, and desperate as they roamed Franco’s back, his sides, his skin. Every touch made Franco’s pulse quicken, made him grind harder, chase more. He wanted to drown in this, to burn himself down to nothing in Ben’s arms.
“Bedroom,” he managed between kisses, tugging at Ben’s shirt. His voice was rough. “I want you naked and hard, pinning me to the mattress.”
Ben’s eyes flicked up, dark and searching, as if to make absolutely sure. Franco answered with a kiss intended to leave Ben in no doubt.
They stumbled down the hall, their mouths never parting for long, hands tugging clothes loose with clumsy urgency. Franco’s jacket hit the floor, then Ben’s shirt, then Franco’s, each layer stripping away the space between them until skin slid against skin and both of them shuddered.
On the bed, the pace slowed again, but this time with reverence. Ben took his time, tracing every line of Franco’s body, and Franco arched into every touch, every kiss, his own hands desperate to pull Ben closer, to keep him there.
What had begun as a slow burn blazed hotter, as need and tenderness collided until Franco could barely breathe. And when Ben finally pushed him down against the sheets, holding his gaze as his rigid shaft slid over Franco’s, he thought he might shatter with the sheer, overwhelming force of it.
This wasn’t lust or hunger.
It was love. Raw, terrifying, impossible love.
And Franco gave himself up to it.
They rolled on the bed, a tangle of bare limbs, Franco’s mouth still hot against his, tasting of need and surrender. Ben slid his hands down Franco’s back, gripping his hips, feeling the solid weight of him above.