Page 81 of Operation Sunshine
By the time the dinner rush wound down, his nerves were shredded. Raj hadn’t said a word about their earlier conversation, hadn’teven dropped a knowing look in his direction, and Franco was grateful for that. He hadn’t told any of the others. This mess of elation and anguish was his alone to bear.
But he couldn’t keep circling like this. He needed to know. Needed to feel with his own hands, his own body, that what he and Ben had wasn’t fragile, wasn’t something that could be undone by three months and a few thousand miles.
He’d left as soon as the restaurant closed, needing some time and space to frame his thoughts, to focus. After a shower and a change of clothing, he realised there was something he had yet to do.
Reply to Gallo’s email.
Franco opened it on his phone, his fingers shaking as he typed his acceptance. He paused before clickingSend, his heart pounding.
I’m really doing this.
Then it was finally on its way, and Franco’s future took a different path.
It was time to see Ben.
Franco climbed the last flight of stairs to Ben’s flat, his pulse loud in his ears. He carried nothing but a small backpack slung over one shoulder, the unspoken weight of his decision heavier than any luggage. He paused at the door, staring at the brass number, familiar now in a way it hadn’t been weeks ago. His heart thudded against his ribs, not from the climb but from everything he wanted to say.
He wasn’t there for tea or quiet conversation. Tonight, he needed Ben to look at him and prove this was real. That if Franco left, he’d be coming back to something worth returning to.
Franco lifted a hand, letting it hover for a heartbeat, then knocked softly. His mouth was dry, his stomach tight, but the decision was made: he was going to spend the night.
One way or another, he had to know.
As soon as he was through the front door of his flat, Ben had thrown himself at the dishes, scrubbing harder than necessary. Then he’d tackled the laundry. Anything to keep from thinking about the hollow ache in his chest. Theclinkof crockery, the hiss of the tap, the scent of detergent…
Distractions, nothing more.
But when the last plate was rinsed and stacked, and the clothes tumbling in the drier, he found himself standing there, staring at nothing, the silence pressing against him.
Franco’s absence pressed harder.
He told himself it was better this way. He wasn’t the kind of man who begged. If Franco’s dream was in Florence, then Ben would damn well respect it, even if it meant tearing himself open in the process. That was what caring about someone meant, wasn’t it? Letting them go, even when every cell in your body screamed at you to hold on.
Then why is my heart so fucking heavy?
There was a knock at the front door, and the sound cut through the flat like a spark, jolting him. His pulse leapt, thundering in his ears. Too late for neighbours, too deliberate to be chance.
Before he even reached the door, he knew who would be standing there.
He opened it, and sure enough, there was Franco.
Restless energy rolled off him, his hair still damp from a shower, his coat open as though he’d thrown it on in a hurry. Those eyes—the ones that always seemed to give him away no matter how hard he tried to hide—held uncertainty, maybe even an apology.
“Can I come in?”
Ben’s throat seized, and he stepped aside.
Franco walked into the living room. Ben indicated the couch, and he perched on the edge of the seat cushion as though he wasn’t sure ifhe belonged there anymore. Ben sat in the armchair facing him, rather than next to him, forcing his hands to stay folded, his features to portray a mask of calm when inside a storm raged.
God, all he wanted to do was reach out, grab hold of Franco, and beg him to stay, plead with him not to walk away from this thing between them that felt more alive than anything Ben had touched in years. But love—if that was what raged through him, stole his breath, and made his heart pound—wasn’t about keeping someone caged.
It was about letting them choose.
Setting them free.
Ben waited for the tension across Franco’s shoulders to ease, but they remained taut, his eyes darting, restless, as though searching the room for an anchor point to tether himself to. For a second Ben thought he’d bolt. He half-expected him to say something polite, something safe, and leave.
Instead, Franco drew in a shaky breath. His gaze finally settled on Ben. “I didn’t come here to talk about Florence,” he said quietly, his tone bordering on fierce. “I came because I need to know this is real. Thatwe’rereal.”
