Chapter Thirty
The taxi pulled away, leaving Ben standing alone in the piazza.
The glow of streetlamps washed the cobblestones in a honey-coloured light, stretching shadows across the square.
Florence at night was far from hushed, a still vibrant city bursting with life, distant laughter echoing from a nearby bar, the faint hum of scooters rattling down side streets.
Ben pulled up the handle of his carry-on bag, his pulse hammering in his throat. He gazed at the building across from him, with its faded ochre facade, green shutters closed against the night and wrought-iron balconies jutting from the second floor.
Somewhere behind one of those shuttered windows, Franco was asleep.
He swallowed hard.
What if this was a mistake?
Ben clenched his fingers around the handle of his suitcase until his knuckles ached. He’d crossed hemispheres for this, and it was way too late to turn back now.
Trust in Franco.
He forced his legs forward, step by step, until he reached the heavy wooden door. Inside, the stairwell smelled faintly of stone and dust, old plaster and lingering cooking aromas. His footsteps echoed as he climbed the stairs, ratcheting up the knot in his stomach.
At the second floor, he stopped before a simple door painted deep green, his breathing rapid. The brass numbers gleamed in the dim light. His hand shook as he raised it, curling into a fist. For a long moment, he couldn’t bring himself to knock.
Just do it, Ben. For once in your life, stop thinking and bloody do it.
Three light raps.
In the silence that followed, his heart thudded. Then he caught the sound of movement, and a moment later, a lock clicked, and the door opened.
Franco stood there, his hair tousled, wearing nothing but a faded T-shirt and drawstring shorts. His eyes blinked against the hall light, heavy with sleep. He frowned, scratching his cheek. Then sharp recognition flared, and he gaped in obvious disbelief.
“Ben?” His voice was rough, low with fatigue but edged with something else that made Ben’s chest tighten.
Ben tried to speak, but his throat closed up. All the words he’d rehearsed, about missing him, about not being able to stay away, about love, crumbled into ash. All he could manage was a ragged whisper. “Hi.”
Franco’s gaze swept over him, down to the suitcase gripped in his hand, then back up. His expression shifted from shock to something softer, rawer. His lips parted as though he might speak, but no sound came.
“I couldn’t… I couldn’t stay away,” Ben blurted.
The words tumbled out, shaky and unpolished.
“I tried. God knows I tried. But everything felt wrong without you. The restaurant, Adelaide… me. It was all wrong.” He shook his head, blinking hard against the burn in his eyes.
“So I came. I had to. Even if it’s too late. Even if you don’t—”
Franco moved so quickly it robbed Ben of his breath. One moment he was standing there in the doorway, and the next he was pulling Ben inside, the door slamming shut behind them .
The words tumbled from Ben’s lips before he could stop them, spilling out ragged and raw.
“Why did you write to me like that?”
Franco blinked and froze. “Like what?”
“Like I was… anyone. Just another name in your inbox.” Ben’s throat worked, his voice tightening.
“Updates about Florence, the food, your bloody apartment. All neat little reports, but nothing that was you . No jokes. No late-night confessions. No…” He broke off, his chest in a vice. “No sign you missed me at all.”
For a moment Franco stared at him, stricken. Then he dragged a hand through his hair and swore softly in Italian.
“I was scared,” he admitted, swallowing.
“Ben, I didn’t know how much to say. I thought if I told you everything: how much I missed you, how it feels going to bed without you, how seeing couples holding hands on the Ponte Vecchio makes me want to scream because I want it to be us…
I was scared I’d fall apart. And I couldn’t afford to do that, not here, not when I’m supposed to be proving myself. ”
He looked away, his face and chest tingling, and stared at the tiled floor.
“So I kept it safe. Polite. Impersonal. Because if I let myself say what I really wanted to—if I let myself write I miss you every single night , or I love you and I’m terrified you’ll forget me —I thought you’d see me for what I am.
Weak. Needy. And then you’d change your mind about me. ”
The admission left his throat raw. “So I tried to pretend I was fine. That I was strong enough to handle the distance.” Franco gulped.
“But I wasn’t. Every time I hit send, I felt as though I was cutting out the part of the email that mattered.
” Finally, he met Ben’s gaze. “The part that was for you.”
Ben’s chest ached, sharp and unrelenting, as he watched Franco fumble for words.
For weeks he’d carried the silence like a wound, those too-bright, too-tidy emails that had felt like a wall between them.
And now he saw what they really were: armour, Franco’s clumsy, desperate attempt to hold himself together.
Ben stepped closer, his voice low but firm.
“You think writing to me as if I mattered less would make me change my mind? Franco, it was the opposite . Every line I read that sounded as though you were keeping me at arm’s length?
That hurt . Because I wanted you , not the postcard version.
The messy, unfiltered, sarcastic, infuriating, brilliant you. ”
Franco’s eyes widened, glistening.
Ben lifted his hand but let it hover, waiting for Franco to lean into it. “You don’t have to protect me from how much you care. You don’t have to protect yourself either. Like I said to you once before… I’m not going anywhere.”
Something in his chest cracked open at Ben’s words, like a dam about to give way. He’d braced himself for anger, for cool dismissal, for Ben confirming all the fears he’d clutched like talismans.
Instead, there was this impossible, unbearable tenderness.
His throat worked. All he could do was whisper, hoarse and shaking, “I missed you. So much it hurt. Every night, every morning, every minute in between… I missed you.”
Ben’s hand finally closed the distance, cupping his jaw, his touch warm, steady, grounding. Franco’s breath stuttered, his eyes fluttering shut against the connection.
Ben felt the confession like a punch, but it wasn’t pain—it was relief, jagged and overwhelming.
For weeks he’d imagined Franco slipping away, Florence taking him piece by piece until nothing remained for Ben to hold onto.
But here he was, trembling and raw, offering the truth like a gift he didn’t think he deserved.
“I missed you too,” Ben said simply. His voice broke on the words, but he didn’t care. “Not the idea of you, not the dream of you, but you . The man who drives me mad and makes me laugh and somehow makes me want to stay.”
Franco’s eyes flew open, wide and bright with something fierce.
Hope.
And then, without thinking, not even remotely the way he’d planned to say it, Ben laid his heart bare.
“I love you.”
It came out rough, cracked, as though the words had been dragged straight from his chest. For a heartbeat they hung there, terrifying in their nakedness.
Ben braced for impact.
Franco’s hands tightened on him, his nails digging into Ben’s shoulders. His breath caught, then spilled out in a shuddering laugh that was halfway to a sob. “Fuck… Ben. I love you too.”
The dam burst.
Ben lifted his head, searching Franco’s face. He didn’t see doubt or hesitation, only fire, only truth. Franco pulled him into a tear-streaked kiss that tasted of salt and relief. Ben clung to him as though those words might dissolve if he let go.
“I wanted to tell you so many times,” Franco murmured against his mouth. “But I was scared if I said it, everything would all fall apart.”
Ben’s throat ached. He cradled Franco’s face, his thumb brushing the damp track on his cheek. “I thought if I said it, you’d feel trapped. That you’d stay out of obligation instead of choice.”
Franco shook his head fiercely. “No. Never. You’re the only thing that made leaving hurt. ”
That undid Ben more than anything. He pressed their foreheads together, his eyes burning. “Then don’t doubt it. Don’t ever doubt it. I love you, Franco. Nothing will change that. Not Florence, not three months, not a lifetime.”
Franco let out a broken laugh, pulling him close until they were chest to chest, skin to skin. “Say it again.”
“I love you.” Ben kissed him. “I love you.” Again, softer, like a vow.
Franco’s lips trembled into a smile. “I could listen to you say that forever.”
Ben couldn’t hold back anymore. He leaned in, closing the last inches between them. Their mouths met not with the frantic hunger of weeks apart, but with something deeper, slow, searching. Franco melted into it, his hands fisting in Ben’s shirt as if anchoring himself.
The kiss stretched, deepened, until breathing became optional, until the ache in Ben’s chest eased enough to let him believe.
This is real.
Ben’s mouth was on his, tasting like longing wrapped in restraint finally torn apart. Franco groaned into the kiss, his body trembling with the rush of weeks of denied hunger. He pressed closer, clutching at Ben’s shirt.
The kiss deepened, Ben’s tongue sliding against his with a control that made Franco weak. Ben’s hand curled at the back of Franco’s neck, firm, possessive, keeping him right there.
“You don’t know how many nights I’ve thought about this,” Ben rasped against his mouth, his breath hot and uneven. “How many times I’ve had to hold myself back from saying what I wanted to do to you.”
Franco’s knees nearly buckled. Ben never talked like this, and God , hearing him sent heat sparking through his veins. “Then say it,” Franco whispered, his lips brushing Ben’s, goading him. “Say it now.”