Page 71 of Operation Sunshine
The kitchen went quiet for a second, and Franco’s grin faltered slightly, like a candle guttering in a draft. He covered it quickly with a shrug. “Eh. Easier to fix other people’s disasters than your own, right?” Then he shoved another forkful of pasta in his mouth.
Willow steered the conversation back to Lexie’s upcoming date, but Ben hadn’t missed that flicker across Franco’s face. He leaned against the door frame, studying him. The way Franco laughed along too loudly, the way he waved his hand as though the subject wasclosed, the way his eyes didn’t quite meet anyone else’s for a moment.
Ben knew walls when he saw them. He’d spent years constructing his own.
Why does it bother me so much, seeing them in Franco?
It was nearly midnight, and they were stretched out on Ben’s couch, takeout containers on the coffee table, filled with what remained of their late meal. A single lamp illuminated them, and Franco could still hear the faint sounds of the city: Adelaide wasn’t ready to call it a night yet.
Franco’s head rested on the arm of the couch, one hand absently twirling the stem of an empty wine glass. Ben sat at the other end, his long legs crossed, watching him with that quiet focus Franco was getting used to.
Franco chuckled. “Do I have food on my face?”
Ben didn’t answer for a moment. “You’re good at it, you know.”
Franco arched his eyebrows. “At what, eating all the spring rolls?”
“Matchmaking,” Ben said simply. “Everyone seems to think you’ve got a gift for it.”
Franco gave a quick, theatrical shrug. “What can I say? I’ve got an eye. I see people, I see what’s missing, and so—” he snapped his fingers “—I fill the gap. Easy.”
Ben didn’t look away. “And was what Raj said accurate? Or can you apply this gift to your own life?”
That landed harder than Franco expected. He tried to laugh it off, but the sound felt brittle. “No. I’m a disaster zone.” He gestured to himself. “I’d never inflict this mess on someone willingly.”
“Franco.” Ben’s tone wasn’t sharp, but he managed to make his name a question.
Franco lowered his gaze and stared at his glass.
If I wait long enough, he might drop the subject.
“I’m still here. Still waiting.”
Franco set the glass down with a sigh before bringing his feet up onto the seat cushion, his arms around his knees, his stomach tight.
“You ever think maybe some people aren’t meant to have that kind of story? That maybe the role they’re meant to play is the best friend, the wingman, the guy who makes sure everyoneelsegets their happily-ever-after?” He shrugged, forcing lightness into his voice. “That’s my role. It’s safe. No one leaves, no one gets hurt.”
Ben’s jaw ticked, but he didn’t interrupt.
Franco lowered his voice. “Look, I know I’m loud. I flirt, I laugh, I… distract. But all of that?” He gestured vaguely at himself once more. “It’s easier than letting someone get close enough to see what’s underneath. Because if they do, and then they decide I’m not worth it…”
His throat seized, unable to finish the sentence.
Ben leaned forward, his forearms braced on his knees. “You think you’re not worth it?”
Franco wanted to make a joke, to throw back something sharp or ridiculous. But Ben had spoken in such a gentle tone that he couldn’t bring himself to do that.
“Sometimes,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper, his chest aching.
The silence that followed felt heavy but not suffocating, as though he was standing at the edge of something vast.
Ben shifted a little closer, reached out, and laid his hand over Franco’s. He didn’t squeeze it, but let it rest there, a reminder of his presence.
Ben’s gaze met his.
“You’re wrong.”
Franco’s first instinct was to roll his eyes, to dismiss it with a grin, but the look in Ben’s eyes stopped him cold. It was serious, unwavering, as though he was staking something real on those two words.
