Page 27 of Enzo
It’s just Enzo.
Enzo.
“I’m back,” Enzo called.
Relief flooded me when I saw him, and my body relaxed. I let out a small breath, the tension in my shoulders easing as the corners of my mouth lifted in a self-conscious smile. “Hey,” I murmured, the words barely louder than the bubbling pot behind me. I stepped into his space and hugged him, and as usual he held me carefully, as if I was going to break.
One day I’d ask him to hold me harder.
And he’d lift me off my feet, let me climb him.
“Smells good in here,” he murmured, and I had to agree.
It had taken a few months after arriving at Redcars before I could keep real food down. After the soup, I’d moved onto plain pasta, the only thing my stomach would accept. Enzo cooked it every night for me, never pushing, never making me eat more than I could handle. Slowly, I started taking over, first just stirring pots as he stood out of the way, then adding ingredients, testing the limits of what I could manage and each time he stood closer to me. My stomach got used to more than soup and crackers and the impossibly good cookies from Carters, and eventually, I craved more.
I asked Jamie to pick up some second-hand cookbooks for me one day. A few days later, they appeared on the counter, neatly stacked, as if waiting for me to take the next step. Afterward, the ingredients magically appeared in the pantry whenever I left a book open to a recipe. I never asked who was behind it, but I had my suspicions when I saw a flash of Jamie’s distinctive leather jacket after the latest deposit to the counter. I experimented with dishes, testing flavors, pushing my comfort zone, and finding control in creating something with my own hands. My best dish? Mac and cheese. Simple, warm, familiar. It became my signature meal, the one thing I could always make without thinking, without fear of messing it up.
And every night Enzo ate with me before heading up to the apartment, and sometimes he’d ask me if I wanted to watch a movie, and I’d go up with him and sit on the sofa and lose myself in elves and dragons
But I missed Enzo when he wasn’t where I could see him, so much that it hurt. The silence after he left felt too loud, the shadows too deep. The fear crept in, slipping through the cracks, but I refused to give in to it. I’d come too far and learned too much. So I did the only thing I could—I cooked.
“Want extra cheese in your pasta?” I asked, keeping my tone deliberately light and casual, the same as always. It was easier to pretend this was a normal conversation and not the highlight of my day. He never once complained that my mac and cheese had become a staple and never suggested I try making something else. If anything, he seemed to love it. I hoped it was more than only a meal to him; that me doing this for him meant something. Like a thank you.
“Of course,” he said too quickly, and I glanced up at him. He looked almost embarrassed as if he hadn’t meant to answer so fast, and warmth curled in my stomach at the thought.
I turned back to the stove, focusing on dishing up the pasta. Anything to keep my hands busy. I’d changed since coming to Redcars, grown stronger, but there were things I couldn’t hide—scars on my wrists, the faded band of red around my throat, the way my knees bore the rough imprint of a past I never talked about. I had reinvented myself as Robert James Ellwood—Robbie—with a fake ID to match, a name I could wrap around me like armor. My hair was black as night, my contacts turned my eyes hazel, and I never left Redcars.
I trusted all the guys here with my safety, but it was Enzo I hid behind when necessary, although I never let myself admit this out loud.
I set the pasta down on the table, pushing a bowl toward him, then sliding over the container of extra grated cheese before taking my seat. We ate like we always did—silent, comfortable, the steady hum of the kitchen filling the space between us. The steam from the pasta curled upward, hitting my face and stinging my eyes. I blinked, the heat making my contacts feel tight and dry. It was a stupid little thing, barely noticeable most of the time, but tonight it felt unbearable. My fingers itched to pull them out and stop pretending I was someone else for just a few minutes, and I sighed, before reaching for the small case I kept tucked in my pocket.
I slipped the lenses out, placing them in the container, and snapping the lid shut. It was a routine now, a habit as much as dyeing my hair or keeping my head down—another layer of the disguise I had built for myself. Without the contacts, I was too recognizable because my heterochromia was so rare.
I swallowed against the lump in my throat, blinking a few times to adjust to the world without the filter of hazel-colored lenses. I dropped my gaze to my plate, stabbing at my pasta, pretending nothing had changed.
“I wish you didn’t have to wear those,” Enzo said, and I stiffened. Was he going to ask me why I was hiding—he’d asked me once, and he’d never asked again. Then Enzo’s voice cut through the quiet. “Your eyes are stunning,” he blurted, and turned scarlet.
I froze, caught off guard.
What the hell do I say to that?
TEN
Enzo
The words wereout before I could stop them, and I had no idea why I’d said them. I’d researched heterochromia almost as soon as Robbie had arrived, because I’d never seen anything as beautiful and unique as his eyes—one iris a warm, hazel green and the other a shade so pale it was almost silver. I knew he wanted to hide them, so he wore those dull brown contacts most of the time. Somehow, since he’d started wearing the contacts I’d become one of the few people who saw him without them.
But I wasn’t supposed to be telling him his eyes were stunning, for fucks sake—maybe it was the way he’d been looking at me—uncertain but hopeful—or perhaps I was too damn tired to keep my thoughts locked down anymore. Either way, I wanted to snatch the words right back when I heard myself say it.
Robbie blinked, confusion flickering across his face as if he’d misheard me. “Oh,” he said, voice quiet and unsure, like he was still figuring out the words even as they left his mouth.
Heat surged up my neck, burning hotter than wildfire as Robbie pushed away his half-eaten pasta. My heart thumped painfully, and I knew I’d screwed up. What the hell had possessed me to say that?
Desperate to fix things, I reached out and touched the back of his hand, my fingers barely grazing his skin. He closed his eyes, and I knew I’d made things shit. Only he scooted closer to me and then straddled my lap, his face in my neck.
“I’m didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable,” I murmured, keeping my voice quiet and careful. I didn’t want to make things worse. He paused, and I braced myself for him to tell me to fuck off and leave him alone. Instead, he glanced up at me and pulled his lower lip between his teeth, worrying it for a moment.
“I wish I could feel beautiful for someone like you.”
