Page 6 of Operation Sunshine
Ben stared into the swirl of steam. In his mind’s eye all he saw was his cavernous apartment filled with cold reflections, the unwatered plant, the echoing conference rooms at midnight.
“I wanted something alive,” he said at last, surprising himself with the rawness in his voice. “Somewhere that didn’t feel... dead inside.”
A hush seemed to ripple out from him, like a dropped stone in a pond. Even the clatter from the kitchen fell silent for a breath.
Franco’s gaze sharpened but stayed kind. “Good,” he murmured. “You might just survive us yet.”
Mina flew past again, balancing a tray of tiny cakes. “Ben. You have to try the lemon tart later. No arguments. It’s practically heaven on your tongue.”
Ollie smirked from the bar. “Welcome to the therapy group.”
Ben looked around. The crooked frames, the scuffed floor, the loud overlapping voices… It was all so chaotic, so different from the carefully curated emptiness he’d run from.
He tried another sip of the tea. Franco was still watching him, his chin in his hand, not pushing but waiting.
An unfamiliar sensation bloomed in Ben’s chest. Not fear or exhaustion, but something warm and alive, like the first breath after a long submersion.
He took a deep breath and let it in.
Franco watched Ben sip the tea, his long fingers wrapped so tightly around the mug it looked as if he might shatter it. The poor man’s eyes kept flicking around the restaurant as though he was searching for an exit he couldn’t locate.
Franco knew that expression.
It was the same look he’d seen in stray dogs outside the restaurant on rainy nights: wary, restless, halfway between bolting and curling up at your feet if you offered the right kindness.
He rested his chin on his hands, his elbows planted on the bar, studying Ben openly. The man was almost painfully put-together: crisp shirt, expensive watch, that little crease between his brows as if he’d been born frowning. A corporate suit pretending to be human.
And yet…
Franco had felt it the second Ben stepped inside. Beneath the stiffness and polite terror, something hummed. A spark. A question.
Franco’s specialty wasn’t just pasta—it was people. He had a sixth sense for what simmered beneath the surface, what peopledidn’tsay. With Ben, it was like catching the scent of rain before the storm hit. You couldn’t see it yet, but you knew it was coming.
Look at you.Franco watched Ben try to disappear into the mug.A man who’s never learned to take up space, and now you own a whole restaurant full of loud idiots.
Behind him, Willow was shrieking about misprinted menus. Raj was lecturing Lexie about the soul of olive oil. Mina twirled past again, leaving a trail of vanilla and lemon zest in her wake. Ollie was quietly making himself a drink that was definitelynoton the clock-approved list.
Chaos.
Franco loved it. Never mind that, hecravedit. And he’d kept it all alive here in this swirl of too-loud affection, unstoppable arguments, and occasionally flour footprints across the floor.
He glanced at Ben again. In the glow of morning light, Ben’s eyes had a look of someone peeking out from behind a barricade, deciding whether or not to step forward. Franco’s chest tightened unexpectedly.
Careful. You’ve done this before. You’ve fallen for the promise of someone’s hidden warmth, believing you could coax it out with jokes and gentle pushes. And you’ve been wrong before, too.
Ben wasn’t simply another project. He felt dangerous in a way Franco hadn’t expected. The sort of dangerous that made you want to lean in closer instead of running the other way.
Maybe that’s what Ishoulddo. Maybe I should run.
Franco shifted, hopping down from the bar stool and sliding back into motion. He needed to keep moving. Inaction was anathema to him.
He ducked into the kitchen, grabbed a colander, and pretended to check on a pot of boiling pasta that had nothing to do with him, pausing to sneak a glance back into the dining room.
Ben was still there, turning the mug slowly in his hands, as though it contained all the answers he’d come to Adelaide to find.
Franco smiled, a small curve of his lips, more private than his usual show-stopping grin.
He thought back to that first night he’d seen Ben sitting in the corner, alone, watchful, trying so hard to be invisible. Franco had pegged him instantly: a man running from something so big it might swallow him whole.
