Page 87 of Operation Sunshine
He’d be on a plane to Florence. He should’ve been elated—this was what he wanted, what he’d worked for—but every time he thought of leaving Adelaide, of leaving Ben, his stomach knotted.
The last two weeks had slipped through Franco’s fingers like flour dust in the air, bright, messy, and impossible to catch. One minute it was still August and the stage in Florence felt like a hazy dream, a future that didn’t quite exist yet. Now, September was upon him, and he was staring down his last night in Adelaide.
Time had sped up the closer the date drew. Service after service blurred together, prep and laughter and late-night cleanup, until he could barely separate one day from the next. The staff kept teasing him.Chef Gallo’s not ready for you, Franco, Lexie had said with a smirk.Bring us back wine, Mina had demanded, and Ollie had grinned as he told Francodon’t forget us little people when you’re famous. Franco had laughed with them, thrown back retorts, and lettheir ribbing roll over him, but underneath it all, a knot had formed, tight and insistent, in his chest.
Because it wasn’t only the restaurant he was leaving.
It was Ben.
He’d tried to soak up every second: every quiet breakfast shared before work; every brush of fingers when they passed in the kitchen; and every stolen kiss in the office doorway when no one was looking. Evenings curled on Ben’s sofa, pretending to watch TV when really Franco was memorising the lines of his face. The way Ben’s smile always started small, as though he didn’t quite trust it yet, before it broke, wide and unguarded. The warmth of his hand reaching for Franco’s when the staff were being rowdy in the kitchen.
And yet, no matter how much he tried to hold on, the days kept slipping past, carrying him closer and closer to the moment when he had to let go.
The thought of Florence still lit something bright inside him. This was his dream, his chance, the kitchen where he could push himself harder than ever. But threaded through that fire was fear, raw and relentless. Because what if the dream came true and he lost Ben in the process? What if, when he came back, there was nothing left between them but a memory of what might have been?
It’s only three months.
Things won’t change that much.
Hewon’t change.
Franco wanted to listen to the logical voice inside his head, but other thoughts drowned it out. He tried to think about how Ben looked at him, as though Franco was more than the chaos he carried, more than the jokes and bravado he hid behind. But that fear was always there, whispering at the edges of his thoughts.
The last two weeks had been perfect but fleeting in their own, fragile way. Every moment had felt as if it had been dipped in gold, bright and precious because he knew it couldn’t last. Service at the restaurant, nights in Ben’s flat or his, the laughter of the staff—all of ithad blurred into something dreamlike. And yet, underneath the lightness, he carried the weight of the countdown.
Every day crossed off the calendar brought him closer to goodbye.
He’d caught himself watching Ben more often than he should, storing up little things for later: the way he hummed under his breath when he was concentrating; how he brushed his hair back when it fell into his eyes; and the dry, quiet wit that snuck up when Franco least expected it. He wanted—no,needed—to remember it all.
Because tomorrow, he’d be on a plane. Tomorrow, he’d be chasing the dream he’d wanted since he was a boy at his Nonna’s table.
And tonight?
Tonight, he wanted to believe that dream didn’t have to mean letting go of Ben.
Ben woke before the alarm like he always did, his body trained now to the rhythm of the restaurant, of mornings that came too early and nights that stretched too late. But this morning, he didn’t move, unwilling to shift from the warmth pressed against him.
Franco lay tucked against his chest, his hair a messy tangle that smelled faintly of sugar and soap. Ben had his arm curved around Franco’s waist, his palm spread flat, feeling every steady rise and fall of his breathing. It should have been comforting but in reality, it was torture.
Every breath was a reminder that tomorrow, this warmth would be gone.
He closed his eyes, tried to fix the moment in his memory. The weight of Franco’s body fitted against his. The soft exhale against his collarbone. The way his hand had at some time in the night found its way to Ben’s chest and rested there, as if to anchor himself even in sleep.
Ben could almost hear the clock ticking, louder than usual, mocking him with the truth.
Their time together was slipping away.
He wanted to whisper the words crowding his chest, pressing against his throat. But they felt too heavy for a morning that should have been gentle. If he let them out, would Franco hear them as love—or as a chain to bind him with?
Instead, Ben did what he knew, what felt safe. He brushed his lips against Franco’s hair, then along his temple, unhurried and lingering. Franco stirred, a soft humming escaping his lips that reverberated through Ben’s chest.
Ben stroked down Franco’s side, his fingertips tracing the familiar curve of his hip. He pressed kisses along Franco’s jaw, coaxing him awake with warmth instead of words.
Franco shifted toward him with a low sound, a smile flickering even as his eyes stayed closed.
“Morning,” Ben murmured against his skin, his voice hushed, careful.
“Mm. Feels more like night,” Franco teased, his tone warm and intimate.
