Chapter 27 Sophie
Sophie
The apartment feels different when I push through the door, arms laden with grocery bags. Lighter somehow, less cramped.
It takes me a moment to realize why.
The living room chair, the one that’s leaned to the left since I bought it secondhand three years ago, sits perfectly upright.
The coffee table and side tables gleam, their scarred surfaces sanded smooth and refinished to a warm honey glow.
And the cabinets and drawer fronts look different, refreshed and almost new.
When I see my bed, my chest tightens. He put together the bed he ordered to replace mine. I heard the delivery truck this morning before I left for the restaurant, but I hadn’t expected this. All of this.
Vin’s leather jacket hangs over the back of the now-stable chair. His phone sits charging on the refinished side table. The faint smell of wood stain and cigarette smoke lingers in the air, mixing with something that feels like effort. Like an apology.
My throat burns. I set the grocery bags on the counter where we fought, where whatever we were becoming came to an end.
It’s been days, almost a week, of us barely speaking, of pretending the other person isn’t there, of cooking for myself only, and pretending the ache I’m feeling is just exhaustion.
But he didn’t leave. He’s slept on the couch, fixed things around the house. I don’t know how to take that.
The bathroom door opens. Steam billows out, carrying the scent of my soap on his skin. Vin emerges in jeans, bare-chested, a towel slung around his neck. Water drips from his hair down his carved torso, rivers running to the V that disappears into his waistband.
He stops when he sees me. His jaw works, his gaze boring into me, and I force myself to pay attention only to the groceries. Not his incredible body. Not the way he’s staring at me.
Before I’ve consciously made the decision to, I say, “You fixed the chair.”
“The couch, too. Spring was broken. Hardware store had the parts.”
“And the tables.”
“They were shit.” He moves deliberately toward the kitchen, like he’s approaching a deer that might bolt. “Looked like you bought them from a crack house.”
“Thrift store, actually.” I pull out the containers of fresh ricotta, the bundles of fresh spinach and arugula. “Close, though.”
His mouth twitches, almost a smile. Almost.
The silence stretches between us, not hostile but fragile. I busy myself with the groceries, hyper-aware of him standing there, the weight of his gaze heavy.
“You hungry?” The words slip out before I can stop them.
He stills. “You offering?”
“I bought fresh spinach.” I gesture to the bundles of greens. “Thought I’d make that spinach gnocchi but with bolognese this time.”
Something flickers across his face, surprise or maybe relief, as his shoulders drop half an inch.
“The one we made before,” he says.
“Yes.”
He nods once, then moves to the refrigerator, pulling out a beer. The cap hisses when he pops it off against the edge of my counter, a move that should irritate me but somehow doesn’t. He leans against the counter, the picture of casual, but his knuckles are white around the bottle neck.
I set to work. The ritual soothes me: washing the spinach, blanching it until it turns a deep forest green, squeezing out the excess water, pureeing it smooth.
Vin watches all of it silently, sipping his beer. I can feel the apology in his stillness.
“Thank you,” I say quietly, mixing the puree into the ricotta and flour. “For the bed. For everything you’ve been doing around here.”
His throat works on a swallow. “It needed to be done.”
“Still, I appreciate you.”
Vin sets the beer down with a soft click and stares at it for a moment. When he speaks, his voice comes out softer than I’ve ever heard it. “Thank you for dinner.”
My hands still in the dough, I look up at him, really look. His face is a study in control, jaw tight, eyes carefully blank. But underneath, something vulnerable lurks in the set of his mouth.
“You’re welcome, Vincenzo.”
We fall into an easy rhythm after that. Me kneading the dough with gentle pressure, just like I showed him that first time. Him finishing his beer and setting it in the recycling bin.
I roll out the gnocchi dough, cutting it into perfect little pillows while the bolognese simmers on the stove, rich with tomatoes, garlic, and red wine.
Vin moves around me with surprising grace for such a large man, staying out of my way but somehow always close. When I reach for the olive oil, he’s already handing it to me. When I need the gnocchi board from the high shelf, he retrieves it before I ask.
This. This is what I tried to explain to him: this is everything between two people, this comfort in silence. This unspoken choreography of two people existing in the same space without friction. This is what I meant about home.
I plate the gnocchi carefully, arranging each piece just so, drizzling the bolognese in a spiral pattern, garnishing with fresh basil and a grating of parmesan. When I turn to bring it to the table, Vin is already sitting, waiting, watching me with an intensity that makes my skin warm.
I set the plate in front of him. Our fingers brush, an accident that sends electricity shooting up my arm.
When he takes a bite, he closes his eyes making that expression that feeds my soul. That’s why I cook. That moment of pure bliss when good food erases everything else and, for just a second, there’s nothing but the simple pleasure of flavor.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, eyes still closed. “This is….”
He doesn’t finish. Just opens his eyes and looks at me, something raw and unguarded flickering across his face before he locks it down.
My heart hammers against my ribs. “Good?”
“Perfect.” He takes another bite, groaning softly. “Fucking perfect, Sophia.”
The sound of my name in his mouth, rough with pleasure, does things to me, makes me want things I shouldn’t want from a man who uses me like a toy. Who will never, ever love me back.
I make myself a small plate, more for show than hunger, and sit across from him. We eat in companionable silence, the tension from the past few days slowly evaporating.
When he finishes, he sits back with a satisfied sigh. “Thank you.”
“You already thanked me.”
“Feels like I should thank you again.” His gaze drops to his empty plate, then back to me. “For putting up with my shit.”
The Vin version of an apology.
“You fixed my chair,” I say softly. “I’d say we’re even.”
Something eases in his expression. He stands, gathering his plate and mine without asking, and carries them to the sink. When the water runs hot, he squirts dish soap and starts scrubbing with methodical attention.
I watch him, this brutal man washing dishes in my tiny kitchen, and feel something tender and stupid and utterly doomed unfurl in my heart.
He washes the other dishes next, the pot I used for the sauce, the gnocchi bowl, then sets them on the drying rack with quiet precision. Moving quietly to the kitchen, I dry the dishes as he finishes, our arms brushing in the small space.
The comfort of it steals my breath, this quiet domesticity. This is what I’ve always wanted: not grand gestures or expensive gifts, but someone who shares the small moments. Someone who sees the dishes need doing and does them without being asked.
I remind myself that the someone in this case is Vincenzo Demonio, that this is temporary, that this will end.
I’ll take what I can get.
When the last dish is dried and put away, I pull out the last ingredients to add to the cannoli cream. Vin goes very still behind me, tension flooding back into his shoulders.
I don’t look at him, just measure out the last little additions, trying not to think about the last batch, about dumping it over his head in a fury I’ve never felt before.
He doesn’t touch me and doesn’t speak. He just watches as I finish and carefully cover the cannoli filling, sliding it into the refrigerator next to the leftover gnocchi.
“For later,” I say quietly. “When I’m ready.”
The message is clear: I’m not there yet. Not completely.
He nods, understanding in his dark eyes.
I wash and dry my hands. “I’m going to bed.”
“Sophia—”
I turn at the sound of my name. He’s standing in the middle of my small kitchen, this massive man surrounded by my little life, looking at me like I’m something he doesn’t know how to hold without breaking.
“Sleep well,” he says finally. “And… thank you. For dinner. For letting me stay.”
My throat closes. I nod, not trusting my voice, and retreat to my room.
I change into my sleep shorts and tank top, wash my face, braid my hair. My reflection shows me how tired I am, the giant bags under my eyes. I’ve barely slept in days.
The new bed is perfect, king-sized, solid, the mattress firm but yielding.
When I slide between the cool sheets, I curl up on my side, the side I slept on when he shared my bed. I’m leaving space for him for the first time since our fight, wondering if he’ll take it.
The apartment goes quiet. I hear him move around, click off the light, close the bathroom door, run the water. Then nothing.
I close my eyes, willing sleep to come, trying not to notice the Vin-shaped emptiness beside me. Really trying not to miss the weight of him, the heat, the steady rhythm of his breathing in the dark. I’m almost asleep when the mattress shifts, and my eyes fly open.
He’s there, sliding under the covers on his side, keeping a careful distance. I feel the dip of the bed, the whisper of sheets, the warmth radiating from his body across the space he’s left between us.
Neither of us speaks.