Chapter 16
Mikayla
I didn’t realize how badly I needed the shower until I was under it.
The water hit my shoulders and everything inside me sagged, tension bleeding out through my skin.
I stood there longer than necessary before I started scrubbing, letting the steam fog the glass and blur the edges of the morning.
I scrubbed my hair, my arms, the places that still ached—not just from bruises, but from holding myself together for so long.
For a few minutes, it worked.
Then the water temperature shifted.
A warning chill made me frown and reach for the tap. I twisted it, waited. The pipes groaned in protest, then—without ceremony—the water went cold. Not lukewarm. Cold.
I hissed and jumped back, wrapping my arms around myself.
“Of course,” I muttered. “Because why wouldn’t today also include plumbing trauma.”
I turned the tap again. Nothing happened. The water kept running, icy and relentless, like it had made a decision.
Fantastic.
I shut it off—or tried to. The handle resisted, then stuck halfway, water still pouring out in a stubborn stream. Steam dissipated fast, replaced by goosebumps as my irritation grew.
I grabbed a towel, wrapped it tight, then left the bathroom and cracked my bedroom door just enough to poke my head out.
“Gianni?” I called, quietly. I was embarrassed, and eager not to announce my towel situation.
There was no answer.
I waited a beat, then opened the door wider and stepped into the hallway. The stone floor was cold under my bare feet, which only added insult to injury.
“Gianni,” I tried again. Louder this time.
Footsteps answered almost immediately.
He appeared at the end of the hall like he’d been closer than I thought, sleeves rolled, expression already alert. His gaze swept me quickly—face, shoulders, towel—then snapped away just as fast, settling firmly on the door behind me.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“The shower,” I said. “It’s… rebelling.”
That earned the faintest exhale of something like amusement as he started walking toward me.
He stepped past me into the bathroom, eyes still averted, and crouched by the taps.
I hovered awkwardly in the doorway, hugging the towel tighter, suddenly hyper-aware of my damp hair, my bare legs, the steam clinging to my skin.
“Old pipes,” he said. “They like to make a point.”
“Mission accomplished.”
He adjusted the handle, muttering something under his breath in Italian that sounded deeply personal. The water sputtered, coughed, then finally stopped.
Silence settled.
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. “Thank you.”
He straightened, turning only then—and stopping short when he did.
For a second, neither of us moved.
The bathroom was still warm, thick with steam. Water clung to my skin, and my hair hung wet down my back. I held the towel tight against my chest, suddenly aware of how exposed I felt.
Gianni stood just inside the doorway. He didn’t move closer. He didn’t look away either. His hands rested at his sides, jaw set like he was holding himself in place.
His eyes met mine and stayed there.
“You should get dressed,” he said evenly. “I’ll get you more towels.”
“I have towels,” I said, then immediately regretted it. The words came out sharper than I meant, defensive for no reason at all.
He nodded once. “Then clothes. Get dressed.”
He turned to leave, paused, then added, “Don’t turn the water back on. I’ll have someone check it. If you need to finish washing, you can use my shower.”
The words hung between us, heavy and charged.
“It’s fine,” I said too quickly.
His expression shifted. Softer. His gaze lingered, slow and steady, before he finally stepped back.
“You’re wet,” I said.
My words were no more than a whisper.
I reached for his sleeve before I’d fully decided to, my fingers brushing the fabric. Water had soaked it through, darkening the cloth, dripping steadily onto the tiles below. Each drop sounded too loud in the small bathroom, ticking away the space between us.
“So I am,” he said.
His voice was calm, but his eyes weren’t. They tracked my hand where it lingered at his arm, then lifted back to my face. He shrugged, a careless roll of his shoulder that sent more water sliding down his sleeve.
I huffed a breath, half a laugh that didn’t quite land. “You’re impossible.”
“Mm,” he said, like he didn’t disagree.
I stepped closer—one step, then another—close enough that the heat of him cut through the damp chill of the room. Close enough that I could smell citrus and oud and something so distinctly him. My hand slid higher on his arm, thumb pressing into the muscle there, grounding myself.
I’d thought about this more times than I cared to admit. In quiet moments. In dangerous ones. But then I always pushed it aside and told myself it wasn’t the time, nor the place.
But standing there, with water still clinging to him and his attention fixed entirely on me, it felt inevitable.
“Gianni,” I said.
He went still at the sound of his name. So I stopped thinking. I rose onto my toes and kissed him.
Just that. Simple and uncomplicated. My mouth against his, soft but sure, like I was finally claiming a truth I’d been circling for days. For half a second, he didn’t react—and then his hand came up, not touching, just hovering at my waist, like he was fighting himself.
When he kissed me back, it wasn’t rushed or desperate. It was careful. Delicate. His hand stayed firm at my back, steady and grounding, and for a few seconds the rest of the world faded into something distant and unimportant.
When we pulled apart, he didn’t step away.
His forehead rested against mine, his breath warm, his presence heavy in a way that made it hard to think straight. My heart was beating too fast, my chest tight like I’d just crossed a line I couldn’t uncross.
“We shouldn’t have done that,” he said quietly.
I let out a shaky breath and managed a weak, crooked smile. “I have a pretty long list of things I shouldn’t have done in my life. Where would you like me to start?”
Something unreadable crossed his face. His arm tightened around me just a little—not pulling me closer, but not quite letting me go, either.
The moment stretched, fragile and dangerous. But standing there, wrapped in his arms, none of that mattered as much as it should have.
Eventually, he leaned back just enough to look at me, his expression guarded again. Controlled. But his hand didn’t leave my back.
And that was how the moment ended—not with distance, not with promises, but with both of us knowing something had changed.
And knowing we were going to pretend it hadn’t.