2. Paolo #2
"You smell like home," I murmur without thinking. The words surprise me with their bluntness.
Her fingers freeze on the bouquet. She lifts her head almost imperceptibly and looks at me the way someone recalculates a map when the landscape has shifted. There is something vulnerable in that look—an expectation, a hope, a fear.
Then the phone buzzes again, louder, insistent. I pull it from my pocket with a motion too fast for the shop, and for the first time since I'm here, I see more than the vibration. A single line blares across the screen. I hide it under my palm while Rosa tilts her head.
"Is that—" she starts.
"It's nothing," I repeat, and this time my voice is strangled.
She steps closer. "Paolo?—"
"Stay," I say, because the command in my chest is louder than whatever text waits on my phone. I tape the lie to the air. "Stay with me for a moment."
Her laugh is a whisper, incredulous and small. She sets the bouquet on the counter and leans in. Up close, I can see the freckle beside her ear like a punctuation mark. I can feel the possibility of more—words, touches, a confession that might heal or wreck both of us.
The phone vibrates again under my hand. My thumb twitches toward the screen despite orders I haven't given it. I press my palm flat, and the screen darkens under the pressure. I pretend I am choosing this: the shop, the scent, the dangerous closeness.
"You're stubborn," Rosa says, and there is affection under the tease.
"I have reasons," I whisper, and for once I don't add a defense. The reasons are too raw to explain: memory like broken glass, guilt that could tear her apart if it returned, the fear that closeness will make me remember the man who hurt her.
She watches me, and the warmth in her eyes is a kind of invitation and a test. My thumb drifts toward the phone despite the moment between us. The vibration becomes an animal in my pocket, impatient and urgent.
Her hand finds mine on the counter—soft, probing—and our fingers lace because neither of us pulls away. The contact is small, domestic, profound. I taste honesty on the air between us and, for the first time, the idea of choosing her over the pull of the message feels possible.
"Tell me why your name felt familiar when I said it the other day," she says, voice almost playful, prodding at the only thing we're both pretending around.
I open my mouth to answer and close it. Memory is a minefield. If I say the wrong thing, if a shard surfaces that I cannot control, everything we are beginning could shatter.
"I dreamed of roses," I say instead, a half-joke that is also the truth. "When I woke up in unfamiliar places, there was always the scent of roses. It kept me...anchored."
Her smile unravels into something softer. "That's a good reason," she says. "Roses are reliable."
I want to tell her more. I want to say that there is a woman in my dreams who tends to plants with hands that know how to coax life from broken stems. I want to tell her that the memory is threaded through with guilt and tenderness and that every time it comes, I am afraid of what else will come with it.
Instead I lower my eyes and let the strap of the bouquet press against my palm.
The phone vibrates again, relentless. I press my thumb down and hide the screen from view, but the shape of the message is already there in the back of my mind, an imperative from a life I have not yet reconciled with the one I want.
"Rosa," Lucia calls from the back, "we're doing a delivery. Two blocks down. Help, or I will shame you."
Rosa laughs. "All right. Paolo, can you help me carry?—?"
My phone buzzes a final time and, in the instant it does, our fingers brush as we both reach for the bouquet. Her skin is warm. Her pulse taps under my thumb in a way that makes me forget to breathe. I lean closer and murmur, near enough only for her, "You smell like home."
The vibration cuts off, and the screen lights with a new message. I hide it beneath my palm. Rosa's eyes flick to my hand, to the phone, and she sees nothing but my palm, steady and closed.
"What's—" she begins.
I do not answer. I tuck the phone back into my pocket and slide the bouquet toward her as if it were something I were offering a piece of my will to hold.
"Come," I say. "Let's deliver it together."
She hesitates, reading me as if I were a ledger with missing pages. Then she nods and picks up the bundle. We step out into the sunlit street together, shoulders almost touching.
My phone buzzes once more in the dark of my coat. I feel it. I feel everything pulling—duty, danger, and the inescapable want to stay near the woman who smells like the life I might try to build. The message vibrates like an ultimatum against the bone of my palm.
I tuck my hand into my pocket, fingers closing on the device. For a moment I consider answering, letting the family call me back into the shape I was. Then I remember her thumb, the thread, the way her hair fell when she turned, and I stay silent.
We walk side by side, the city air full of salt and sun, and I keep the message un-read. The world narrows to the weight of the bouquet between us and the warmth of her hand in mine.
My phone buzzes again, this time with a name I know will make the air change. I press my thumb harder to the screen and feel the decision burn hotter.
I don't know which will break first—the call or the thread holding us together. The vibration thrums like a warning. I tighten my grip.