Chapter Twenty-Five #2
By late evening, he was drained. They’d had a steady stream of diners, and someone had obviously talked because more than a few of the regulars wished him success for the stage.
Franco found it hard to retreat behind his usual wall of banter and bravado, and when he got a second, he dove out in search of a glass of water.
To his surprise, Ben was waiting for him by the office door, a glass already in his hand.
“You holding up?” Ben asked in a quiet voice.
Franco gave a crooked smile. “Barely. Feels as if everyone’s already saying goodbye.”
Ben’s gaze was steady and warm. “That’s because they care. And they’ll be here when you come back.”
Franco wanted to say And you? Will you still be here? but the words snagged in his throat. Instead, he brushed his hand against Ben’s, a fleeting touch that still made his chest ache.
When Ben finally locked the front door, Franco was ready to collapse—until Raj called from upstairs in the function room.
“Get your arse up here,” Raj groused. “ You are in trouble.”
From the office doorway, Ben blinked. “Okay, what have you done now?”
“Nothing,” Franco protested. “I’m completely innocent of…whatever it is.”
Ben smirked. “I’m not sure I’d go that far. Let’s go see what’s gotten Raj all riled up.”
Franco climbed the stairs, Ben behind him, and when he pushed the door open, voices rang out.
“Surprise!”
The room was strung with fairy lights, a banner stretched across the far wall: YOU’RE GONNA DAZZLE THEM, FRANCO.
Arun waved from the corner. Chloe raised a glass.
Mina and Ollie popped confetti cannons, showering the room in glitter.
Lexie smiled at him from behind the banquet table filled with plates of nibbles.
Willow grinned. “You didn’t think we were going to let you leave without a party, did you?”
He smiled, his face hot, lost for words.
Raj appeared with a cake iced in messy swirls, bearing the words Good Luck, Franco .
Franco brought his hand to his chest in feigned shock. “You baked ?”
Raj snorted. “I cheated. Box mix,” he said dryly.
“Liar,” Franco said, grinning despite the lump in his throat.
“Fine.” Raj smirked. “Box mix and a prayer.”
A loud pop behind him revealed Ben opening a bottle of champagne, and then everyone let out whoops and cheers.
“If ever there was a reason to celebrate,” Ben said, his voice carrying across the room, “this is it.” He passed the bottle to Lexie, who proceeded to fill the glasses while he opened another.
Glasses clinked, laughter filled the air, and Franco let himself sink into the warmth of it. He looked around at the people who had long since become more than colleagues or friends.
They were his family.
But when the noise swelled, his gaze found Ben’s across the room. Ben raised his glass, his smile warm and true. That was when Franco knew that whatever Florence brought, wherever this path led, he’d come back.
As long as Ben was here, he’d always come back.
The party had dwindled to its last embers, until all that remained were half-empty glasses, crumbs of boxed cake, and the quiet shuffle of chairs being pushed under the table.
Franco helped Mina gather confetti into a dustpan, although most of it clung stubbornly to the floor.
Willow pressed a box of leftover cake into his hands, insisting he’d want it at midnight.
Lexie hugged him quickly, muttering “Don’t make me cry” into his shoulder before retreating downstairs in a hurry.
Franco’s heart ached. They believed in him.
What struck him hardest, however, wasn’t the cheers or the champagne or the smiles. It was the way Ben had stood, a glass in his hand, his gaze never straying too far from Franco, as though taking his eyes off him would somehow make him vanish.
Franco went downstairs, carrying the cake box. The kitchen was already empty.
It was just him and Ben.
Franco deposited the box on the prep table. “We can eat this tomorrow.”
“You want to walk back with me?” Ben asked.
Franco froze for a second, his breath catching. Then he managed to stammer out “Of course.”
He wanted nothing more than to end this night—this day, this bittersweet countdown—with Ben, in Ben’s space, in Ben’s arms.
The night air was cold, sharp with the faint tang of salt carried up from the coast. Ben kept his hands shoved deep in his pockets as they walked side by side. Franco’s shoulder brushed his now and then, a casual connection, but every time it did, Ben’s chest tightened.
He knew what he wanted to say.
Don’t go.
I’m in love with you, and I don’t know what I’ll do without you here.
The words lodged in his throat. Saying them now, on the eve of Franco’s departure, felt cruel.
Instead, he went with practicalities. “This apartment they’ve provided. Where did you say it is? Close to the restaurant?”
Franco shoved his hands into his coat. “It’s in Santa Croce, a couple of blocks from Gallo’s restaurant.
It’s on the second floor. I’ve seen pictures.
It looks amazing: high ceilings, a balcony, a view of the church…
” He grinned. “The one from that movie, A Room With A View .” He fanned himself. “Julian Sands was so hot. ”
Ben laughed. “I see.” He fought to keep his tone level. “That sounds perfect. You’ll love being able to walk everywhere.”
“Yeah.” Franco’s smile faltered. “It all feels a bit unreal.”
Ben hummed in quiet agreement, his throat too tight. He kept going, because silence meant danger. Words might escape. “What do you want to see, while you’ve got the chance? Besides kitchens, I mean.”
Franco chuckled, the sound warm enough to chase some of the chill from the air. “The Uffizi. The Duomo. Maybe take a train to Bologna, so I can eat my body weight in ragù.” His eyes glinted sideways at Ben. “You’d like it there, I think.”
Ben’s lips curved into the smallest smile.
If I went, it’d be to see you, not the ragù.
“Take it all in. Enjoy every minute.”
They fell into silence after that, their footsteps echoing against the pavement. Ben knew he was memorising every word, every glance, every sound of Franco walking beside him, because soon it would be gone. He couldn’t bring himself to ask the only question that mattered.
Will you promise you’ll come back to me?
His flat came into view, and he forced a lighter tone. “You’ll dazzle them, Franco.”
But not so much that they don’t want to let you leave when the stage is finished.
Ben prayed such a message would never arrive.