Chapter 3 #2
I want to cross this room and fist my hands in that shirt, feel my fabric against her skin, pull her close enough to feel she's not wearing anything under it.
I want to push her back onto my bed and watch her hair spread across my pillow, see her in my clothes in my space and make her understand that she's mine—has always been mine––even when I sent her away, even when I broke her heart, even after I've spent four years pretending I don't think about her every second of every day.
"Well?" Her voice cuts through the silence like a knife. "Are you going to say something or just stare?"
"They fit."
"They're huge, Enzo. I'm drowning." She scoffs.
"They'll work."
"That's it? That's all you've got?" She crosses her arms tighter and the shirt pulls across her chest in a way that's going to kill me. "No comment on how ridiculous I look?"
You look like you're mine. Like you're wearing my clothes and sleeping in my bed and I want to keep you here forever.
"You look fine, Isabella."
"Fine." She gives a short and sharp and bitter laugh. "You're a terrible liar."
"I'm not lying."
"No? Then why won't you look at me properly?"
Because if I look any harder I'm going to touch, and if I touch I'm going to kiss, and if I kiss I'm going to ruin everything.
I look at her fully and let myself see all of it, her in my shirt and pants and wet hair, standing in my room like she belongs here.
"There," I say, my voice rough and tense. "I'm looking."
"And?"
"And you should sit down. Your hair's a mess."
She blinks and the challenge in her expression falters, replaced by confusion. "What?"
"Your hair." I gesture at it where it's hanging in wet tangles down her back. "It's tangled."
She reaches up and tries to run her fingers through, getting caught immediately before trying to work it free. She can't.
"I'll deal with it tomorrow."
"You'll be miserable." I’m miserable.
"I'll be fine."
"Isabella—"
"I said I'll be fine." She tugs harder at the knot and her eyes water before she drops her hand in defeat. "It's just hair."
She's too proud to ask for help. Always has been.
"Sit down."
"Why?"
"Because I'm going to fix it."
She stares at me like I've just suggested something impossible. "You're going to fix my hair?"
"Unless you want to sleep with your head stuck to the pillow."
"I don't need—"
"Sit. Down."
For a second, I think she's going to argue, going to tell me to go to hell, to throw her walls up and push me away like she's been doing for four years.
Then she sits on the edge of my bed with her hands in her lap and her back straight, her chin up even in surrender.
Stubborn even when she's giving in.
I move behind her and stand there for a moment, close enough to see the water droplets still clinging to the ends of her hair, the way it's already starting to dry in some places and curl slightly at the ends.
"I'm going to touch it," I say, making sure she knows the boundaries. "Just your hair. That okay?"
"Fine."
I start at the ends where the tangles are worst, separating the strands carefully and working them apart with my fingers—patient and methodical the way I approach everything. Her hair's thick and heavy, cold from the shower water, and I can feel the weight of it in my hands as I work.
So soft. So luscious.
I move slowly, one section at a time, finding the knots and easing them loose without pulling, without hurting her because that's the last thing I want to do.
My fingers get close to the back of her neck—so close I can feel the heat of her skin radiating through the small gap between us, close enough that if I moved one inch, I'd be touching her.
I don't move that inch though.
She sits perfectly still and doesn't speak, doesn't move, just lets me work while the silence between us grows heavy and charged with every breath too loud and every movement too careful.
My knuckles brush the top of her spine.
She shivers.
I freeze with my hands still in her hair, my breath caught in my throat.
"Cold?"
"No." Her voice is quiet, almost a whisper. "Y-Your hands are warm."
I keep working, slower now and more carefully, making sure I don't touch her skin again even though every instinct is screaming at me to do exactly that—to slide my hands from her hair to her shoulders, to feel the curve of her neck under my palms, to lean down and press my mouth to the spot where her pulse beats.
I don't do any of those things.
I finish the last section and her hair falls perfectly down her back—smooth and dark and smelling like my shampoo.
Unable to help myself, I run my fingers through it one more time, testing and making sure I didn't miss anything.
Soft. Perfect. Mine.
"Done."
She doesn't move and neither do I.
We just stay like that—me standing behind her with my hands in her hair, her sitting on my bed in my clothes, both of us breathing too carefully, like we're afraid to break whatever this moment is.
"Thank you," she whispers.
I step back and force myself to move away, force my hands to drop to my sides.
"You should sleep. It's late."
She stands and turns to face me, and we're three feet apart but it might as well be three inches with the way the air feels between us—thick and charged and dangerous.
"Where are you sleeping?"
"Guest room. Or couch downstairs."
"This is your room."
"You're taking it."
"I don't need—"
"Take the room, Isabella. I'll be fine."
Her jaw tightens and I can see her fighting the urge to argue. "Fine."
We stare at each other and neither of us moves, neither of us speaks, the silence stretching until it feels like something's going to snap.
Then she walks past me and her shoulder brushes mine—just barely, just enough that I feel the warmth of her through my shirt—and I hear her footsteps down the hall followed by a door closing.
Silence.
I stand alone in my room and stare at the spot on my bed where she sat, at the torn emerald dress crumpled on the floor like evidence that Isabella Romano was here in my space, in my clothes, in my head.
I'm in so much trouble.