But Too Well

VI : Reassurance

His dark eyes narrow, a look of recognition flashing across them. He stands at the threshold of my apartment, not even attempting to come any further.

I wait for him to say something, maybe explain himself or apologize but he says nothing, just continues to stare into my unforgiving gaze.

Eventually, he shakes his head ever so slightly, looking at me with hard eyes. "Gioia, are you really so surprised?"

I searched that one up too, gioia. Joy. So fucking inaccurate.

My breaths are short and shallow, and I continue to stare at him, disgusted. "How can you even..." I shake my head, appalled. "How are you okay with that? You're... you're responsible for it! That man's life is over because of you!"

I focus on the floor, on his shoes. They are really nice, expensive-looking. This murderous bastard is doing well for himself, and the idea bothers me immensely. "I can't be around you anymore, Nero. Please go away."

I'm sure he can hear the defeat in my voice, the anger having been exhausted and the tiredness, the doneness, starting to sink in.

"Rosalina," he commands, his voice steady and hard, "Look at me."

Almost as if on its own accord, my gaze snaps upwards to meet his, his voice as compelling and his eyes as startling as always. I'm sure I could get lost in those eyes, and I know it would be a dangerous thing.

He steps closer to me, slowly, and as I am about to open my mouth to tell him to stop, to leave, he finds his way right in front of me, our chests inches apart. Whatever protests my enraged mind was filled with dissipate.

He's a good foot taller than me, Nero. He's also so close, so calm, a steadiness emanating from him. My heart still pounds beneath my ribs, my face is still flushed.

But this time, with him looking down at me, his eyes and nose and lips right there, I'm sure that maybe the sensations that I'm feeling aren't only due to anger or fatigue. It isn't just disgust or anxiety; it's him, right here, near enough to touch and feel and smell, the heat coming from his skin making me warm all over.

I have known this man for less than a week, and he is currently standing in my apartment, and his face and entire being are the most incredibly beautiful things I have ever seen, and I should feel more scared but I don't.

He's inches from me, his expression unreadable yet definite, his eyes staring at me and sending sparks down my tingling spine.

He's a cold-hearted criminal who deals with drugs and gangs and who gives commands, simple and short, to end people's lives.

A few days ago he forced me hard against the door of my own apartment, grasping my wrists tightly and threatening to slit my throat; he woke up early on a Sunday morning to buy me fresh, delicious pastries, still warm when I ate them.

And now he stands here, in front of me, wondering why I am so surprised that someone is dead, and I have no answer for him. He's dizzying, disorienting. He's maddening.

I let out a small sound as his long, smooth fingers grasp my chin, the feeling familiar yet exceptionally shocking. He tilts my head upwards, forcing my eyes to meet his. I can feel my heart pounding, the stunning curves and angles and features of his face completely disarming. His expression is one of certainty and a kind of softness, and I can't make myself look away.

It seems like forever before he speaks, his face leaning downwards so our noses are a mere centimeter apart. "Dolcezza," he grumbles, his voice barely above a whisper. The way he says it made my mouth go dry. "You have no idea the kind of world I live in." His words are gentle yet firm. The way his eyes, dark and bright, look into mine so intensely, I find it hard to form words.

My gaze is held hostage by his. His fingers still hold my chin, their warmth dizzying. "In my world," I begin slowly, "knowing that something illegal is going to happen and not doing anything to stop it makes me a criminal." The words are painful as they leave my mouth, soft and brutally honest. "You made me a criminal, Nero."

He remains silent, studying my face. The way he looks at me, as if trying to understand every last detail, makes me so damn weak.

His thumb moves slowly, pressing against my lips, brushing them, soft and light, his eyes continuing to hold my gaze. Helpless, my lips part, and his thumb is firm as it caresses the pink skin of my mouth, almost tenderly. My eyes drift shut, his touch making me shiver, and there's a strange flutter in my chest.

When his thumb pulls away, resting softly on my chin, my eyes open again, and they catch his gaze, dark on my mouth. I let out a surprised breath. When his eyes meet mine again, they hold a kind of wonder, a kind of promise.

"Rosalina," he says, his voice hard and rough, "You are not a criminal. You have nothing to do with that man's death." The way he looks at me, firm and certain, it's as if he's trying to make me understand, to make me agree. "Okay?"

Slowly I nod. My entire body tingles with his proximity, and my voice is small and soft when I speak. "Okay."

He nods slowly too. "Okay, then." And then he leans in, closer, until the tip of his nose touches the tip of mine, his lips a couple of tiny spaces away. My heart jumps frantically in my startled chest, my breath catches in my throat. His eyes are as dark and deep and as full of promise as ever, and I am frozen, absorbed.

He closes his eyes, his dark, thick lashes impossibly long as they brush against his skin, and my eyes flutter shut too. Our breaths mingle, hot in the small gap between us. Our silence is heavy, so many questions left unanswered, so many things, impossible things, left unsaid.

And then, as quickly as he came, he leaves, his face and body no longer close or touching me. I stare at the closed door, my breaths still heavy and my head still spinning, long after he's gone.

***

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