Chapter Thirty-One
Ten days here isn’t enough.
Ben had expected Florence to feel like a postcard, too perfect to belong to the real world. But walking its cobbled streets with the pale Tuscan sun spilling over ochre rooftops, he realised it was alive, flawed, chaotic, and impossibly beautiful.
Franco left early most mornings, his chef’s whites slung over his shoulder, and Ben watched him disappear into the labyrinth of streets that led toward Gallo’s kitchen.
Each time, Ben’s chest swelled with pride, but there was also a raw ache.
Franco was exactly where he belonged: learning, thriving, dazzling.
Ben was learning too, although in a quieter way.
He gave himself over to the city. He drifted through the Uffizi, standing so long in front of Botticelli’s Primavera that a guard eventually nudged him along.
He lingered on bridges over the Arno, letting the breeze carry the faint tang of river water and roasted chestnuts from street vendors.
He climbed the winding steps of the Duomo until his legs trembled, and then stood in awe at the sea of terracotta rooftops rippling out to the horizon.
But every afternoon, as shadows stretched across the piazzas and bells tolled from church towers, his steps circled inevitably back to Franco.
It became their rhythm: the city by day, Franco by night.
They strolled hand in hand along the Arno at sunset, the Ponte Vecchio glowing in the last light, shop windows glinting with gold and silver.
Franco made fun of the way Ben’s phone filled up with pictures of buildings, but then snapped photos of Ben when he thought he wasn’t looking: Ben laughing, pistachio gelato dripping down his wrist, Ben squinting against the sun, Ben staring at him across a tiny table lit by a single flickering candle.
He’d have made a lousy secret agent—Ben caught him every single time.
Dinner was never extravagant. Sometimes they ate at a bistro tucked into a side street, where the tables wobbled and the wine was poured generously by a grandmotherly owner who winked at Franco as if she’d already adopted him.
Sometimes it was takeaway pizza, eaten sitting on the steps of a church while Franco narrated the history of the piazza in dramatic, mostly invented detail until Ben laughed so hard his stomach hurt.
One night, Franco led him up to Piazzale Michelangelo, where the city unfurled beneath them in a blaze of lights.
They stood side by side, their breath misting in the cooling air, while Franco pointed out the buildings he’d already come to love: the squat fortress of Palazzo Vecchio, the perfect dome of Brunelleschi, the slender bell towers scattered like exclamation marks.
“Doesn’t it make you feel small?” Franco murmured.
Ben slid his arm around Franco’s waist. “It makes me feel I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”
Franco’s hand covered his, warm and steady. “Me too.”
They kissed under the spill of stars, the city glittering beneath them, and Ben did his best not to think about what would come next, but simply let himself have this: Franco, Florence, the miracle of now.
Later in the week, Franco surprised him by sneaking out of the kitchen early.
They ducked into a wine bar off Piazza della Signoria, all dark wood and flickering candlelight, where Franco translated the wine list for him—badly, Ben suspected, since every description ended with “and this one is sexy.” They ended up drunk on Chianti and laughter, stumbling back through the narrow streets until Franco pulled Ben into a shadowed doorway and kissed him as if they hadn’t spent half the week tangled together already.
By Friday, Ben had lost track of time. Every evening folded into the next: their laughter echoing off stone walls, their fingers twined as they navigated crowds of tourists, quiet moments on Franco’s balcony with nothing but the sound of their breathing in sync.
He wanted to cram Florence into his veins, but more than that, he wanted to etch every second with Franco into his memory: the way Franco’s voice softened when he explained a dish he was learning, the way candlelight caught in his eyes, the way he reached for Ben as if he’d been doing it all his life.
Two more months.
They sat at a café in Piazza Santo Spirito, Franco’s ankle hooked around his under the table. Two months until Franco came home to Adelaide.
Until he comes home to me.
But tonight they were together. And if Florence had taught him anything in a handful of days, it was that beauty wasn’t meant to be hoarded or feared. It was meant to be lived in, fully, until the last drop was gone.
He leaned across the table, cupped Franco’s jaw, and kissed him. The bells of Santo Spirito chimed overhead, and Franco smiled against his lips.
“You’re getting good at this Italian thing,” Franco whispered.
“Only the important parts,” Ben murmured back.
And in that moment, the ache of leaving, the distance waiting for them, all of it receded. What remained was simple, clear, undeniable: love, in the heart of Florence, burning bright.
The shutters were cracked open, letting in a sliver of moonlight that painted pale silver across Franco’s bare shoulder.
They lay between sheets that smelled faintly of soap, Ben’s fingers idly tracing circles over Franco’s chest. The city was quiet now, the hum of scooters and chatter fading into the night.
Ben should have been asleep. His body was heavy with it, his mind lulled by warmth and Franco’s steady heartbeat beneath his ear. But the secret he’d been carrying—the one he’d promised himself he would never mention—burned in his chest until he could no longer ignore it.
My last night here.
He had to say something while he still had time.
“Franco,” he murmured.
Franco’s hand drifted lazily down his back. “Mm?”
Ben swallowed. His throat was dry, the words too sharp to force out easily. “There’s something I need to tell you. Something I should have told you sooner.”
Franco shifted onto his side, his dark eyes catching the moonlight, suddenly more alert. “What is it?”
Ben hesitated for a second. “You’d been gone about three weeks.
And one day I overheard Lexie and Willow talking.
About… Operation Sunshine.” The name tasted bitter.
“Or Distracto, whatever they called it at first.” He paused.
“That’s how it started, wasn’t it? You were supposed to distract me. To… seduce me.”
Franco went very still. His mouth opened, then closed again.
“I didn’t want to bring it up,” Ben continued, his voice quiet but firm. “You’ve got so much on your plate here, and I didn’t want to… derail you. But I couldn’t keep it from you forever. Not now. Not when…” He drew a shaky breath. “Not when I know how I feel about you… how you feel about me.”
Franco sat up against the pillows, reached over to click on the bedside lamp, then scraped a hand through his hair.
“Fuck. I should have told you myself. I thought—no, I hoped —you’d never find out.
” He buried his face in his hands for a moment, then raised his chin and looked at Ben, his face flushed.
“It was a joke, okay? A stupid, thoughtless joke the staff cooked up. And yeah, I played along at first. But it wasn’t real.
” He swallowed. “Not that part. Not with you.”
Ben’s chest tightened. “I know,” he said in a low voice. “I knew it the moment we… well, the moment we became real. But hearing them talk about it… I can’t deny it hurt. Not because of you, but because they treated me like a project. Like I was some pathetic man who needed saving from himself.”
“Ben…” Franco’s hands were on Ben’s shoulders.
“I swear to you, however this started, it stopped the second I realised what was happening between us. When I realised you weren’t just some grumpy bastard I had to charm.
You were… you are the man I love.” His voice cracked. “I never used you, not for a second.”
Ben searched his face, seeing every line and flicker of emotion. Franco’s guilt was real, his anguish raw.
So was the love burning in his eyes.
“I believe you,” Ben whispered.
Franco sagged with relief, then cupped Ben’s face and kissed him, unhurried, steady, a promise pressed into lips and breath. He rested his forehead against Ben’s. “I should have told you, but I was scared you’d think everything between us was a lie.”
Ben brushed his thumb across Franco’s cheekbone. “It’s not a lie, I know that. And what we have here? This is all that matters now.”
They lay back down, wrapped around each other, the truth finally spoken and settled between them.
Ben felt lighter, his breathing syncing once more with Franco’s, his ear pressed to Franco’s chest, lost in the rhythm of his heartbeat.
Franco kissed the crown of his head. “When you go back tomorrow, don’t carry this with you. Leave it here. Leave it with me.”
Ben closed his eyes, holding him tighter. “I already have.”
Franco brushed his thumb in absent circles against Ben’s temple, as though he was afraid of letting go now the truth had been spoken aloud. The room was hushed, the air filled with nothing but their breaths and the faint hum of Florence beyond the shutters.
Ben shifted slightly, enough to see Franco’s face, although it made the words heavier on his tongue. “There’s something else you should know.”
Franco’s brow furrowed. “What is it?”
Ben’s throat worked, and then he said it. “The night I heard them talking, I went home, running over it over and over in my mind.”
“Of course you did.” Franco kissed his head.
“Yes, but… I thought about selling the restaurant.”
Franco blinked as Ben’s words sank in. “What?”
“I meant it,” Ben continued, his voice steady. “I even started making calls. I thought… if my own staff could treat me like a joke, then maybe I didn’t belong there at all. But what consumed me was not knowing if I could face you coming back in December and finding out I’d let it all go.”
Franco sat up straighter, his eyes wide. “Ben, you can’t—”
“I didn’t,” Ben interrupted, reaching for his hand.
He laced their fingers together, tethering himself to Franco like an anchor.
“I thought long and hard about it every night for a week. But in the end, I realised I wasn’t ready to walk away, not after we’d worked so hard.
And as for the staff… They’re not perfect, but they’re family now.
And they’re trying.” He smiled. “We’re… rebuilding. ”
Franco searched his face, as if testing every word for cracks. “And you’re okay with them? After everything?”
Ben let out a breath. “It still stings, sometimes. But they’ve shown me they’re truly sorry, that they want to make things right. And I don’t want to punish them forever for one stupid mistake. So yes—I’m okay. We’re okay.”
The relief that swept across Franco’s face was palpable. He let out a shuddering breath. “You scared the shit out of me just now.”
“Join the club,” Ben murmured, tugging him closer until Franco was sprawled against his chest. He pressed a kiss to Franco’s hair, lingering there. “But I wanted you to know. I don’t want there to be any secrets between us.”
Franco tightened his arms around him. “God, Ben. Selling up? That would’ve broken me.”
Ben swallowed hard, his throat tightening. “I know. That’s why I didn’t. Because I want you to come back to a home, Franco. To me—to us. And the restaurant is part of that home.”
The words hung in the air like a vow, the weight of weeks finally lifting.
Franco tilted his head, his eyes glimmering in the lamplight, and kissed him, the kind of kiss that was in no hurry to be anywhere, that promised more without demanding it. Ben slid a hand along the curve of his back, pulling him closer, feeling Franco melt into him.
They moved together with unhurried care. It wasn’t about urgency—it was about savouring, imprinting every caress, every shiver, every gasp.
Ben kissed Franco as though he were memorising him, without walls or reservations.
Their bodies joined, settling into a rhythm, tender and lingering, taking turns to slide into each other, until Franco was deep inside him, and Ben trembled with the force of his climax.
He clung to Franco, jolted by waves of pleasure, Franco’s whisper rough against his ear.
“Yours, Ben. Always.”
When it was over, they lay curled around one another in sweat-damp sheets, their breathing gradually slowing, their hands never parting. Franco dozed off against Ben’s chest, but Ben stayed awake, stroking his hair, committing the weight of him to memory.
In only a few hours’ time, he’d have to let go.
The terminal was mostly quiet. Dawn had more than two hours left before it had to put in an appearance. Everything felt oddly suspended in time. Ben gripped the handle of his carry-on, his passport tucked in his jacket.
His attention was focused on Franco, who looked tired, his hair mussed, his eyes heavy. He stood close, one hand curled in Ben’s sleeve as if reluctant to let go.
“I hate this,” Franco murmured, his voice rough.
“I know,” Ben said quietly. He traced the line of Franco’s cheek with his thumb. “But it’s not forever. You’ll be back in Adelaide before you know it.”
Franco swallowed hard. “Right now, two more months feels like forever.”
Ben pulled him closer. “Then we’ll count the days. Together.”
They kissed once, twice, tender lingering kisses that carried the weight of promises too big to utter out loud.
When Ben pulled back, he pressed their foreheads together. “Franco… you’re my home. Doesn’t matter if it’s Adelaide, Florence, or bloody Antarctica. You’re it.”
Franco made a choked sound, then buried his face in Ben’s neck. “And you’re mine. So I’m coming home to you.”
A final call for boarding echoed over the speakers, and Ben loosened his hold. He slid his fingers down Franco’s arm, squeezing his hand one last time before letting go.
“I’ll see you soon.”
Franco nodded. “See you soon.” His voice cracked.
Ben turned toward the gate, forcing his legs to move. He didn’t look back until he was at the line for boarding, and when he did, Franco was still there, watching, his shoulders squared as if he carried the weight of the whole world on them.
Ben lifted a hand, and Franco raised his in answer.
With his heart both breaking and hopeful, Ben turned away.
I’m going to count the days.
Never mind the days—he was going to count the minutes.