Chapter 28 – Dario
I nudge the loft door open, wood creaking under my hand. Viviana steps inside, barefoot, raindrops glistening on her shoulders from the summer shower outside.
The club below sits dark, a few jazz notes drifting up from a record left spinning, their faint hum threading through the stillness. It’s late, the celebration long faded.
The loft’s bare, just a mattress against the wall, a blanket rumpled over it, crates stacked into rough shelves. Candles perch on every edge, their golden light washing the room soft.
Rain taps gentle against the skylight, a steady rhythm that feels like a fresh start. I carry two unlit candles, wax smooth in my hands, and set them on a crate.
I strike a match, the sound sharp, and light them slow, flames blooming one by one. Viviana moves to the windowsill, her fingers brushing its dusty ridge.
“I like this place,” she says, voice low, certain. “Feels like something could grow here.”
I step closer, my boots scuffing the floorboards. Her words land deep, stirring something quiet and real in me.
I take her hand, her skin cool and damp, mine rough from the match’s heat. “It already is,” I say, meaning it, my voice steady.
She turns to me, green eyes catching the candlelight, unguarded and clear. No rush pushes us forward, just this moment, heavy with presence.
My fingers find her shirt, damp fabric clinging to her frame. I unbutton it slow, knuckles grazing her ribs, her breath catching soft under my touch.
She’s a map of survival, every line a story we’ve lived. I peel the shirt back, letting it drop, her skin bared to the warm glow.
Her hands tug at my jacket, steady and sure, sliding it off my shoulders. It falls heavy, rain-soaked, and she starts on my shirt next.
She doesn’t hurry, just unbuttons it, her fingers brushing my chest, unveiling me piece by piece. I feel the air hit my skin, cool and alive.
My shirt joins hers on the floor, and I reach for her pants, easing them down. She steps free, standing bare, her presence filling the room.
I kick off my boots, shed my jeans, the denim crumpling beside us. We’re stripped down now, no armor left, just flesh and memory.
She traces my arm, her touch light over the faded stitches, and I feel her warmth seep in, grounding me here, now.
I guide her to the mattress, hands on her hips, my grip firm but gentle. She sits, then leans back, and I follow, easing her down.
The blanket shifts beneath us, coarse but familiar, and I settle beside her, my hand resting on her side, feeling her breathe.
“You’re not who you were when we met,” she says, her voice cutting the quiet, clear and true.
I meet her gaze, her eyes wet with unshed tears, bright with something new. “No,” I say, my fingers tracing her skin. “I buried him beside Massimo.”
She smiles, small and honest, the candlelight glinting off her damp lashes. “Then let’s grow someone else,” she says, her voice a soft promise.
The jazz notes hum faint below, a thread of sound weaving through the loft. I feel her words take root, steady and sure.
Her hand brushes my chest, resting there, and I cover it with mine, pressing it close. The rain taps above, a rhythm that matches us.
I shift closer on the mattress, my hand tracing Viviana’s side, her skin warm under my palm. Her breath brushes my neck, steady and close. I lean in, my lips finding hers, tasting rain and her, a slow kiss that lingers.
She kisses back, her hands sliding up my chest, fingers splaying wide. We move together, no hurry, just hands exploring, mouths tasting, a rhythm that builds quiet.
I pull back, my forehead pressing hers, our breaths mingling warm. Her eyes hold mine, green and deep, and I feel her, real, here.
She shifts, her hand finding the burn on my shoulder, puckered skin from a Molotov’s kiss. Her lips press there, soft and deliberate, a promise sealed against me.
I exhale, her touch grounding me, and I slide my hand down her back, feeling the curve of her spine, the strength beneath her warmth.
She moves with me, her leg hooking over mine, our bodies aligning natural, easy. I kiss her throat, tasting the faint salt on her skin, and she tilts her head, giving me more. Her fingers thread through my hair, tugging light, guiding me.
She’s not fire now. She’s earth. She’s rain. She’s the soil I never thought I deserved. The thought rises unbidden, steady and true.
I shift, rolling her beneath me, my hands framing her hips. She looks up, eyes bright in the candlelight, and I feel her trust, a gift I’ll never take for granted.
Her hands roam my back, tracing old scars, her touch gentle but sure. I lean down, kissing her chest, my lips brushing the faint mark above her heart.
She pulls me closer, her breath hitching, and whispers, “Stay.” It’s not fear in her voice, not need, just her choosing me, clear and real.
“Viviana,” I whisper back, her name the only word that matters, slipping from me like a vow. I kiss her again, deep and slow, tasting her choice.
I move with her, our rhythm steady, a dance we’ve learned step by step. Her legs wrap around me, pulling me in, and I feel her warmth, her pulse against mine.
She shifts, rolling us, and now she’s above, her hair falling dark around her face. I grip her thighs, guiding her, and she moves slow, deliberate, her eyes locked on mine.
I trace her ribs, my thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts, and she gasps soft, rocking against me. I feel every shift, every breath, and it’s enough.
She leans down, her lips grazing my ear, her breath warm and ragged. I turn my head, kissing her neck, tasting the rain still clinging there.
I roll us again, settling between her thighs, my hands sliding up her arms. She arches into me, her fingers digging into my shoulders, and we move together, steady, deep.
Her breath quickens, a soft sound against my ear, and I kiss her jaw, her cheek, her lips, each one a mark of this moment, this trust.
I feel her tighten around me, her body trembling faint, and I hold her close, my hand cradling her neck. She whispers my name, a quiet claim, and I answer with hers.
We slow, easing into each other, our movements soft now, lingering. I brush her hair back, damp strands sticking to my fingers, and she smiles, tired but radiant.
I shift, rolling to my side, pulling her with me. We lie tangled, her leg draped over mine, her head resting on my chest, and I feel her heartbeat, steady against me.
“You still smell like flowers,” I say, my voice low, brushing her hair back again, the scent faint but there, woven into her.
She laughs, a tired, glowing sound that fills the loft. “Roses from ruin,” she says, her hand resting on my side, warm and sure.
“And I’d plant them again,” I murmur, my lips brushing her forehead, “just to find you.”
She shifts, looking up at me, her eyes soft in the dim light. “What are we now?” she asks, her voice quiet, searching.
I hold her gaze, feeling the weight of it, the truth of us. “Alive,” I say, my hand tracing her arm, steady and real.
She nods, a small smile tugging her lips, and I look at her, like prayer, like she’s the answer I’ve been chasing all along.
“And finally home,” I say, my voice soft, certain, the words landing true.
The loft hums around us, the candles flickering low, wax pooling on the crates. I feel her breath against my chest, warm and even, a rhythm I could live by.
Rain taps faint against the skylight, a gentle echo of the storm we’ve left behind. I trace her shoulder, feeling the muscle beneath, the life in her.
She shifts closer, her hand sliding to my hip, resting there. I kiss the top of her head, tasting the dampness still clinging to her hair.
The jazz notes from below have faded, the record silent now, and the quiet wraps us tight, a cocoon we’ve built from ruin.
The rain taps one last time, then fades, and I hold her, my hand on her waist, knowing this is where we begin again.