Page 20 of Enzo
—and then he was there. Arms around me. Catching me before I fell.
One arm wrapped around my waist, the other braced me to his chest. Solid. Steady. Warm from the heat of the day and smelling of engine oil and soap, I didn’t move or breathe for a second. Being held like this—held, not grabbed—sent something aching through my chest. I craved the gentle care. But he was close enough to see everything. The raw edges of me, and his gaze met mine. Something passed between us—sharp and soft all at once.
His brow furrowed, then he said, almost as if he didn’t mean to say it out loud, “Your eyes are so unusual.”
I blinked, startled. “What?”
Enzo’s voice was low, thoughtful. “Your eyes, one gray, the other hazel.”
“Let me go,” I wriggled free and hurried the last few steps down and into my room—I slipped inside and shut it, pressing the lock into place with a softclick. I leaned on the door, eyes closed and tried to breathe past the rush of emotion in my throat. I was clean. I was safe. But I was also terrified—because for one impossible second, I’d let myself want someone to hold me. And that someone looked a lot like Enzo.
EIGHT
Enzo
Memories of scaring Robbie,of catching him, of feeling the weight of him in my arms, made it so there no hope in hell of sleeping tonight. I sat at the scarred kitchen table, fingers curled around the mug of cocoa, lost in thought with just the hum of the fridge for company. I didn’t sleep much anymore, not since Robbie had arrived and SC had tagged the outside wall like a calling card anyway, but after holding Robbie… nah… not happening.
I stayed at Redcars every night. Crashed in the upstairs apartment, half-dressed and ready to move if something went down. The security system beeped when anyone came in or out, and I still jumped every damn time, with a tire iron by the bed. I hated that Robbie was downstairs in his room, but I could be with him in seconds if he needed me. But tonight sleep wasn’t happening so I was down here in the kitchen.
I heard the soft creak of Robbie’s door. I didn’t move. Figured he was heading up to the bathroom. He’d been doing better, sleeping a little deeper, trusting the space. Still, I kept half an ear on the floorboards.
Then came the footsteps—quiet, careful. Not upstairs to the bathroom, but toward me. I stiffened, every muscle tightening on instinct and a second later, Robbie stepped into the kitchen. His hair was a mess, as though he’d been tossing around in bed for hours. He wore sweat pants and one of the oversized shirts I’d left in the pile outside his door—one of my old Redcars sweatshirts, faded red, nearly swallowed him whole—and his eyes were wide, soft with sleep. God, those eyes. I couldn’t see the color in the dim light, but I knew them. Knew the exact, impossible shades. Unique. Stunning.
He hovered in the doorway his feet in those cute-as-hell hospital slippers and a blanket wrapped around his shoulders.
“Robbie,” I began, and then I had nowhere to go with what to say next.
He hesitated, and I waited. “I’m… I’m hungry,” he said, and then cleared his throat. “Hungry,” he repeated.
I pushed back from the table, reacting before my brain caught up. “Yeah, of course,” I said, standing too fast.
Robbie flinched.
Shit.
I sat right back down, slow, palms open on the table like I could prove I wasn’t a threat. “Sorry. I can make you something. Eggs? Toast? Or?—”
“Do we have any more cookies?” he said, then his eyes flicked toward my mug. “and can I have some of that as well?”
I nodded, already reaching for another mug. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. Cookies and cocoa are coming right up. Sit. I’ll get it.” I moved around the kitchen as quietly as I could, digging out the last few of Carters’ cookies from the cookie jar we kept sealed tight in the cupboard. I poured the cocoa into a clean mug and then reached over to set both the cocoa and the plate down in front of him. He hunched protectively over the food, and my stupid heart broke a little.
“Thanks,” he said, barely above a whisper.
I nodded. “No problem.”
Then came the hard part—notwatching him. I focused on my own mug. On the little bubbles where the milk had frothed. On the chip in the rim. Anything but Robbie. But I still saw him, in the edge of my vision. The way he picked up a cookie as if it might vanish if he wasn’t careful. How he took the smallest bites and sipped his cocoa so carefully.
My hands curled into fists in my lap. I didn’t say anything. Didn’t move. Just sat there, silent and still, like maybe if I didn’t breathe too loud, he’d feel safe. He took another bite. Then a sip of cocoa. His shoulders dropped a fraction. Not relaxed—just a little less braced. The kind of change you wouldn’t notice unless you were looking too hard. And hell, I was always looking too hard. Worrying. Watching. Waiting. Falling into his eyes.
He glanced up, met my eyes. I turned away quickly, cleared my throat. “Sorry they’re not fresh. Jamie was meant to grab more today, but he got called out and... yeah.”
“They’re still good,” he said.
If I stood too quick again, he’d bolt, so I stayed still. In the kitchen. At the table. Eating cookies and drinking cocoa like maybe this was normal. He’d eaten half a cookie, then another, and some of the cocoa, and I was pretending as if I wasn’t watching every movement when he cleared his throat softly.
“I finished all the filing,” he said, eyes fixed on the rim of his mug when I slid one toward him. “Everything’s in the folders. Alphabetical. And I matched all the invoices to orders.”
I nodded. “That’s great. Logan’ll be happy.”
