Page 155 of The Hitman's Secret Baby
He leans in and kisses me, slow and soft and sure. "I only miss the part of it that gave me you."
I close my eyes and rest my forehead against his. We stay like that for a long time, the sun rising higher, the breeze carrying the scent of rosemary through the windows, the sound of distant bells from the village drifting up to meet us.
This house is not large. It has no guards, no gates, no cameras. But it is ours. Built with quiet and grit, with forgiveness and persistence, with late-night confessions and whispered promises made beneath bruised skies.
Later, Gabriel will wake. We will take him to school, the one with the climbing wall and the art room that smells like paint. I will bake bread again, and Enzo will try to fix the roof and swear when he falls through it. The world will keep moving. But for now, I sit beside the man I love and listen to the silence of a life we fought to keep.
It sounds like everything we never thought we'd have.
The table is still clutteredwith the remnants of dinner—plates scraped clean, wine glasses tipped with gold at the edges, the candle flickering low and lazy between us.
The kitchen smells like garlic and lemon, like rosemary roasted in olive oil, like laughter that has not yet been washed away.
The last of the bread is torn into soft pieces in a linen basket, and Enzo's fork rests on the rim of his plate, abandoned when conversation overtook appetite.
Outside, the wind has slowed. The olive branches no longer murmur against the shutters. Somewhere in the village below, a bell chimes the hour, a soft metallic echo swallowed by the hills.
Gabriel has gone to Alistair's house, a school friend with a soccer ball and a labrador puppy, and he will not be back until morning.
Which means this evening belongs to us.
Enzo leans back in his chair, the white fabric of his shirt wrinkled and soft against his skin, his sleeves rolled to the elbows, his mouth curved into the faintest smile. It's the kind that always undoes me. He watches me with the patience of a man who no longer needs to chase what he wants, because he already has it in his hands.
"You're staring," I murmur, reaching for my wine.
"I'm memorizing," he says. "It's different."
I shake my head, but I smile. I feel it, rising slow and warm from the base of my spine to the corners of my mouth. I sip the wine, rich and dark and made in the valley behind our house, and I let it linger on my tongue. "What exactly are you memorizing?"
"The way you look when you're full and happy and wearing that old sweater you refuse to throw out."
"It's comfortable."
"It's faded."
"So am I."
He stands then, slow and quiet, and moves around the table. His hand slides across the small of my back as he takes my wineglass and sets it gently on the counter. I turn to him, but he's already in front of me, already leaning down, already brushing his mouth against mine like he's waited all evening to do just that.
The kiss is soft at first. Then deeper. More. My fingers rise to his collar, curling into the fabric, and I feel him breathe into the space between us like he's trying to inhale something that has no name. He lifts me without asking. He just slides his hands beneath my thighs and pulls me up, and I wrap my legs around him, my arms around his neck. The world tilts with us. The kitchen disappears. The wine. The candles. The night.
He carries me to the bedroom like I weigh nothing, like he's done this a thousand times and will do it a thousand more. The lamp on the nightstand is already on, casting the room in amber and linen and the low glow of familiarity. He sets me down on the bed, kneeling over me, his hands braced on either side of my shoulders, his mouth brushing mine in that way that always starts something and never finishes it.
I reach for the buttons of his shirt and undo them slowly, one by one, my fingers grazing his skin as I go. He watches me, eyes dark and steady, chest rising beneath my hands. When the shirt falls open, I trace the lines of his scars, the soft curve of his ribs, the rough strength in the hollow of his collarbone.
"You're so quiet," I say, my voice barely above a breath.
"I'm trying to remember if this is real," he replies.
I pull him down to kiss him again, longer this time, until I feel the edge of him unravel, until I feel the tension slip from his shoulders and his body melt into mine.
I tug my sweater over my head, toss it aside. His hands are on my waist, my ribs, my back, warm and sure and reverent.I arch into him as he pulls my leggings down my thighs, his mouth trailing behind his fingers, mapping every inch of me like a promise.
There is no rush in the way he moves. Only purpose. Only heat. He undresses slowly, methodically, never taking his eyes off mine. When we are bare, skin to skin, he lowers himself onto the bed beside me and pulls me into his lap, my knees bracketing his hips, my body already aching for him, already ready.
I sink down onto him with a gasp that turns into his name. He groans, low and broken, his head falling forward onto my shoulder. We stay like that for a moment, just breathing, just holding each other, hearts aligned, the rhythm of something ancient and holy rising between us.
Then I move.
