Chapter Twenty-Six #2
Ben poured them both mugs of coffee, then sat across from Franco at the table.
They talked about nothing consequential, the pastry case that needed restocking, Raj’s latest obsession with wine pairings, Ollie’s terrible playlist. Their voices wove around the silence, filling it with mundane threads, as though talking about work could anchor them in the familiar.
The moment came when Franco couldn’t pretend anymore.
He set his mug down too hard, the ceramic clink loud in the quiet kitchen. “I should go. I still have packing to do.”
Ben’s eyes flicked to him, his gaze unreadable. Then he nodded. “Yeah.”
The finality in his tone nearly undid Franco.
He stood, walked around the table to where Ben sat, and pulled him up by the hand.
Their kiss wasn’t frantic like the night before, but soft, lingering, desperate in its restraint.
Franco poured everything into it—all the words he couldn’t say, all the love he couldn’t voice.
All the hope he was terrified to name.
Franco’s hand was on his neck, connecting them as they kissed, unhurried and tender.
Ben felt the kiss like a brand, gentle, aching, full of everything Franco wasn’t saying. And when it broke, Franco pressed their foreheads together and whispered, “When I get back… I hope…”
Something deep inside Ben cracked.
“Me too,” he whispered back, because it was all he trusted his voice to carry.
Franco stepped away, the space between them opened, and Ben’s chest screamed with the pressure of all the words he longed to give voice to.
What if I never get another chance? What if the plane takes Franco away not just for three months, but forever?
Before he could stop himself, he spoke.
“Franco—wait.”
Franco turned, his hand still on the strap of his bag, his eyes dark and uncertain.
Ben’s throat worked, dry as sand. He’d never been good at baring his soul, letting anyone see past the armour he wore like skin.
But Franco had already seen it all. Franco had undone him piece by piece until there was no armour left.
“You should know…” Ben’s voice shook, but he pushed on.
“You’ve changed me, more than I thought anyone could.
When I came here, I was… angry. Lost. Convinced I could build something new without ever really letting people in.
And then you—” He broke off, shaking his head, a helpless laugh escaping.
“You blew into my life like a bloody hurricane. Loud, chaotic, impossible to ignore. And some how… you made me want to stay. To fight for this place. To fight for… you.”
Franco’s breathing hitched, his expression crumbling at the edges.
“I don’t know what’s going to happen when you’re gone,” Ben admitted, his voice raw now, spilling fast as though if he didn’t let out what he was feeling, it would choke him.
“And maybe you’ll come back and everything will be the same.
Or maybe it won’t. But if I never get the chance to say it again, I need you to know: I’m not the man I was when you met me. And that’s because of you.”
Franco’s eyes shimmered in the heavy silence that followed, his lips parting as though the words were there, right there, if only he could let them fall.
But instead, he only whispered, “Ben…”
And God, the way he said it.
Like an ache.
Ben forced himself to smile, his chest burning. “Go on. Finish packing. And don’t miss your flight.”
Franco gave a sharp nod and took another step back. Another lingering glance.
Ben surged forward, grabbing Franco’s head, their lips colliding in a fervent kiss. Ben poured his heart and soul into it, all the emotions he couldn’t reveal.
He had to let go at some point.
Franco took a deep breath. “Goodbye.”
And then he was gone, the door shutting with a soft click that sounded far too loud in the quiet flat.
Ben stood there, his chest heaving, staring at the door as though sheer will might bring Franco back.
The silence that followed was deafening.
It pressed in on him, thick and heavy, filling the space Franco had just occupied.
The air still smelled faintly of him—soap and coffee, the citrus tang of his shampoo—and Ben’s chest ached as if he’d been hollowed out.
He dragged a hand through his hair, pacing once through the hallway, then back again .
God, why didn’t I say it?
The words had sat on the edge of his tongue all night, all morning. I love you. Three syllables, so simple, and yet he’d swallowed them down, convinced that saying them hours before Franco left, would be selfish. A chain around his neck. A weight Franco shouldn’t have to carry to Florence.
But as the silence grew, so did the doubt.
What if I’ve made a mistake?
What if Franco needed to hear it?
What if those words are the anchor that make him want to come back?
Ben braced his hands on the wall, his head bowed. The thought of Franco in Italy, laughing, cooking, living, maybe finding someone else who lit him up the way he deserved, was a knife straight to the gut. And yet, wasn’t that the point? Franco deserved everything, even if it left Ben behind.
The temptation was brutal. He pulled his phone from his pocket and stared at it. He could call. He could run after him. He could go to Franco’s flat, knock on the door, and just say it. Strip himself bare, risk it all.
Fear rooted him in place. Fear it would sound like a plea, that if he spoke those words, and Franco left anyway, it would break him in ways he couldn’t recover from.
The quiet stretched, the flat empty around him. He finally sat on the couch, his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor as if the grain of the wood might give him answers.
For the first time in years, Ben was scared.
Franco’s flat felt colder than it should have. The suitcase lay open on the bed, half-packed, and the sight of it turned his stomach. He moved around the room like a ghost, folding clothes with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking.
Every corner of the flat felt wrong. Empty. Or maybe it was him who felt empty, stripped of something essential the second he’d walked out of Ben’s door.
He sat on the edge of the bed, his face buried in his hands.
God, he’d wanted to go back. Every step away from Ben’s flat had been torture, his feet dragging, his chest tight. The urge to turn around, to throw everything away and beg Ben to just hold him, had been nearly unbearable.
But he hadn’t.
Guilt gnawed at him, berating him for leaving at all, telling him he was putting miles between them when they’d barely begun.
Guilt that even last night, when Ben had touched him as though he was the most precious thing in the world, Franco hadn’t had the courage to say what was burning in his chest.
I love you.
The words stuck like glass in his throat. What if saying them made it harder? What if it broke something instead of binding it? What if Ben didn’t feel the same—or worse, what if he did and it only made goodbye more unbearable?
Fear twined with longing, tightening his chest until Franco could hardly breathe. He pressed his palms over his eyes, fighting the sting.
Florence was everything he’d ever wanted. The stage was his dream, his chance to prove himself, to grow. And yet, for the first time, he questioned if a dream was worth the cost of leaving the person who’d made him believe he was worthy of more than flings and fast, messy nights.
He forced himself to stand, to keep packing, to fold shirts and tuck chargers into corners, as though movement might keep him from crumbling. But every task was haunted by Ben’s laugh, Ben’s hands, Ben’s voice whispering me too when Franco hadn’t been brave enough to finish the sentence .
He zipped the suitcase shut, the sound final and brutal. His chest ached as if he’d locked a piece of himself inside it.
And still, he told himself the same lie he’d been repeating for days.
It’s only three months. He’ll be there when I get back.
But in the quiet, his heart whispered the truth he couldn’t silence.
What if he isn’t?