Franco’s chest tightened, the weight of Ben’s words sinking deep, a promise that settled somewhere deep inside him. No matter what came next, no matter where he went, he knew now this wasn’t merely a passing moment. This was something real. Something that could last.

  He didn’t mention Florence, but the silence wasn’t avoidance—it was sanctuary. For tonight, there was no leaving, no countdown, only the two of them, skin to skin, hearts pressed close, Franco daring to believe this connection could survive whatever distance was coming.

  He closed his eyes, letting the warmth of Ben’s body against his and the gentle rhythm of their breathing lull him into a place of peace he hadn’t felt in a long time. Yes, he’d be leaving, but at least he wouldn’t be leaving alone.

  He’d carry Ben with him.

  And as sleep began to pull him under, his fingers traced the curve of Ben’s shoulder, clinging to the words, to the promise.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Franco woke to the warmth of sunlight slipping through Ben’s curtains and the steady rise and fall of Ben’s chest beneath his cheek. For a moment, he let himself believe there was no ticking clock, no Florence, no looming departure, only this.

  Only them.

  Ben’s arm tightened unconsciously around him, his palm splayed over Franco’s back as if it belonged there. The touch was so natural, so unthinking, that Franco’s throat caught. He tipped his head back, taking in the mess of Ben’s hair, the shadow of stubble along his jaw, the faint crease between his brows that smoothed when Franco brushed it lightly with his thumb.

  “Morning,” Ben murmured, his voice gravelly with sleep.

  “Morning.” Franco wanted to freeze time right here, to live in this cocoon of sheets and warmth and Ben’s heartbeat under his ear.

  Ben pressed a kiss to his temple, lingering there. “You’re quiet.”

  Franco strove not to laugh. Quiet was not a word often applied to him. But this wasn’t the usual morning-after chatter, full of jokes and easy innuendo.

  This was heavier, yet somehow fragile at the same time.

  “I’m just…” He hesitated, staring at the line of Ben’s collarbone where the sheet had slipped. “I’m trying to remember what this feels like. So I don’t forget.”

  Ben’s breathing hitched. He didn’t answer right away, but tightened his hold, moulding Franco against him. “You don’t have to remember,” he said at last. “You’ll come back to it.”

  The words should have comforted Franco. Instead, they lodged like glass between his ribs, way too close to his heart. He wanted to believe them, wanted to believe they could pick this up when he returned from Florence, as though three months and a continent wouldn’t stretch between them. Despite his optimism of the previous night, when the heat of his orgasm had still lingered, uncertainty now loomed on the horizon, as heavy as storm clouds.

  He burrowed closer, tucking his face into the hollow of Ben’s throat, and let himself whisper the only truth he could manage. “I don’t want to get up yet.”

  Ben’s hand smoothed gently over his back. “Then don’t,” he murmured. “We can stay like this a while longer.”

  Franco breathed him in, clinging to the illusion of permanence, to the warmth of Ben’s arms.

  The world could wait an hour more.

  Ben paused at the door to the restaurant. “You’re sure about this?”

  Franco nodded. The softness of the morning had been folded up and hidden away. They went inside, and he could already hear sounds from the kitchen.

  Raj peered through the pass. “Oh, so you do work here after all. I was beginning to wonder.”

  Franco glanced at Ben, who nodded. Franco clapped his hands. “All right, famiglia,” he called out. “Everyone, knives down. I have an announcement.”

  One by one they filtered out of the kitchen, Raj wiping his palms on a towel, Mina batting sugar from her apron, Willow and Lexie regarding him with obvious curiosity. Ollie popped up from behind the bar.

  “You’re on,” Ben murmured.

  Franco inhaled deeply. “You are looking at the next stagiaire for the one and only Chef Gallo in Florence.”

  A murmur of surprise rippled through the room, followed by a few gasps, and then cheers, claps, and whistles. Lexie let out a high-pitched “Oh my God, Franco!” while Raj rolled his eyes and muttered, “Of course he did,” although he made no effort to hide his smile.

  “How long will you be gone for?” Willow demanded.

  “Three months. Sunshine, pasta, wine, and me dazzling the old master himself with my charm. Try not to miss me too much while I’m gone, eh?” He grinned.

  The staff laughed, tossing congratulations his way. Someone shouted, “Bring back recipes!” Another yelled, “Bring back wine!”

  Franco winked, batting away their remarks. “Please, I’m not a mule. But maybe if you’re lucky…”

  “When do you leave?” Lexie asked.

  He rolled his eyes. “You’re already anxious to get rid of me? I haven’t even bought my ticket yet. The stage begins the first week in September.”

  Willow blinked. “But… that’s only two weeks from now.”

  He nodded. “I only found out yesterday. To be honest, I’d given up hope.”

  On the surface, it was vintage Franco: the loud voice, the quick smile, the magnetic energy. But underneath the banter and bravado, his chest ached with the echo of the morning, with the memory of Ben’s arms around him.

  His eyes flicked for a second to where Ben stood, quiet, unreadable, his jaw tight, and Franco felt the ground tilt beneath him. He forced the grin wider and let the laughter carry him.

  No one got to see the crack in his armour.

  The restaurant had emptied, and Franco sat opposite Ben in the quiet of the office, his legs sprawled, his smile more subdued now the crowd had gone.

  They’d been talking logistics—flights, schedules, cover shifts. Practical things. Safe things.

  And then Franco leaned back, his gaze softer. “Three months isn’t forever, you know. I’ll come back.”

  Ben’s throat tightened. God, he wanted to believe that, but people changed. Three months in Florence could be three months of new horizons, new people, new opportunities. Franco could taste freedom, ambition, a bigger world than their little corner of Adelaide.

  And if I asked him to stay? If I said don’t go, I love you?

  That wasn’t love, that was selfishness. That was clipping Franco’s wings because he was afraid of being left behind.

  Instead, he forced a nod, steady and calm. “Then I’ll be here when you do.”

  He didn’t say the words burning his chest, not because they weren’t true, but because love was supposed to be open-handed. He couldn’t risk making it a tether, forcing Franco to say them back out of guilt or obligation.

  Better to hold his silence than to tell the truth and lose everything.

  Ben’s words rang in his head.

  Then I’ll be here when you do.

  It should have been enough. It should have eased the gnawing ache in Franco’s gut, the fear that leaving meant destroying the best thing he’d ever stumbled into.

  Ben hadn’t asked him to stay. He hadn’t said don’t go. And Franco couldn’t be the one to break first. Because what if he said those three little words—I love you—and Ben didn’t feel the same? What if all this tenderness, all the nights wrapped in warmth, all the laughter, was comfort, pleasure, and not permanence?

  What if Ben did say it back? Franco still had to go. Only then he’d be the bastard who broke a good man’s heart.

  Better to retreat into humour, into safety.

  He grinned. “You’d better not let Raj replace me with someone too handsome. Can’t have the kitchen forgetting me that fast.”

  Ben’s smile was sad.

  Franco swallowed down the words he couldn’t say.

  Because God help him, he did love Ben. But love meant risk, and risk was a leap he wasn’t brave enough to take, not with everything else about to change.

  So he promised the only thing he could.

  “I’ll come back. To you. To this.”

  And prayed it would still be true when the stage was over.

  The restaurant hummed with its usual end-of-day energy: plates were cleared, counters wiped, the aroma of fresh bread lingering in the air. Franco lingered near the bar, the weight of the day pressing lightly on him. His announcement earlier had gone smoothly enough, but the laughter hadn’t erased the flutter of nerves in his chest.

  “Get over here, chef,” Ollie called out from where he and Willow stood by the bar. There was a mischievous glint in his eye. “We need a proper toast.” He popped a cork, then filled three glasses.

  Franco beamed. “Champagne?”

  Ollie snorted. “You wish. It’s only prosecco.”

  Franco raised his eyebrows. “You’re really lowering the bar, aren’t you?”

  Willow rolled her eyes. “Lowering the bar? I think we’re setting it appropriately. Now come on, before we drink it all ourselves.” She held a glass out to him.

  Franco took a sip.

  “So,” Ollie began, his tone light, “what went wrong with Ben?”

  Franco froze. “Wrong with Ben?” he echoed, forcing amusement into his voice. “Nothing’s wrong with Ben. He’s perfect. Far too perfect, if you ask me.”

  Willow leaned closer, her eyes sharp. “You’re leaving, Franco. And we’re supposed to believe it’s nothing to do with him?”

  He hesitated, swirling the prosecco in his glass as if it held all the answers. Finally, he set it down and ran a hand through his hair. “It’s not Ben,” he admitted, his voice low. “Leaving… going to Florence… it’s something I need. Something I’ve wanted for years. And yet, every step I take toward it, I think about him. About what he means to me.”

  Ollie and Willow exchanged a glance. “So it’s not about anything he did?” Willow asked softly.

  Franco shook his head. “No, it’s about what I’m afraid of. Losing him. Losing me. And if I tell him… if I say how I feel… I don’t know if I could bear it if it didn’t work out. So I’m going to leave, quietly, without saying a word. Maybe that’s the safest way to keep it all intact.”

  Ollie clapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Classic Franco. Always protecting everyone else, even if it means breaking your own heart.”

  Willow reached over, squeezing his hand gently. “You care about him.”

  Franco almost choked. He’d passed caring weeks ago.

  “We can see it, and it’s obvious Ben feels the same,” Willow continued. “But you’ve got to let someone else in, Franco. Let him see you. It might not be perfect, but that’s the whole point, isn’t it?”

  Franco laughed, the sound a little wistful. “Perfect never was my style.” He looked at them, his chest tight. “But maybe… maybe I could learn to try.”

  Ollie raised his glass. “To learning. And to not hiding anymore.”

  Willow clinked her glass against Franco’s, smiling. “And to Florence. May it be the adventure you deserve.”

  Franco smiled. “To Florence. And… to the one I can’t stop thinking about.”

  He drained his glass, a mix of nervous excitement and longing curling in his belly. He wasn’t ready to tell Ben yet, not tonight, not now, but letting someone else in, even if it was just Ollie and Willow, made the weight a little lighter to bear.

  At least someone knows what’s in my heart.

  He ignored the quiet voice at the back of his mind that said that someone should be Ben.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Franco woke with a heaviness in his chest, as if someone had placed a stone there overnight. The air felt chilly despite the warmth of Ben’s arm draped over him.

  Tomorrow night.

  He’d be on a plane to Florence. He should’ve been elated—this was what he wanted, what he’d worked for—but every time he thought of leaving Adelaide, of leaving Ben, his stomach knotted.

  The last two weeks had slipped through Franco’s fingers like flour dust in the air, bright, messy, and impossible to catch. One minute it was still August and the stage in Florence felt like a hazy dream, a future that didn’t quite exist yet. Now, September was upon him, and he was staring down his last night in Adelaide.

  Time had sped up the closer the date drew. Service after service blurred together, prep and laughter and late-night cleanup, until he could barely separate one day from the next. The staff kept teasing him. Chef Gallo’s not ready for you, Franco, Lexie had said with a smirk. Bring us back wine, Mina had demanded, and Ollie had grinned as he told Franco don’t forget us little people when you’re famous. Franco had laughed with them, thrown back retorts, and let their ribbing roll over him, but underneath it all, a knot had formed, tight and insistent, in his chest.

  Because it wasn’t only the restaurant he was leaving.

  It was Ben.

  He’d tried to soak up every second: every quiet breakfast shared before work; every brush of fingers when they passed in the kitchen; and every stolen kiss in the office doorway when no one was looking. Evenings curled on Ben’s sofa, pretending to watch TV when really Franco was memorising the lines of his face. The way Ben’s smile always started small, as though he didn’t quite trust it yet, before it broke, wide and unguarded. The warmth of his hand reaching for Franco’s when the staff were being rowdy in the kitchen.

  And yet, no matter how much he tried to hold on, the days kept slipping past, carrying him closer and closer to the moment when he had to let go.

  The thought of Florence still lit something bright inside him. This was his dream, his chance, the kitchen where he could push himself harder than ever. But threaded through that fire was fear, raw and relentless. Because what if the dream came true and he lost Ben in the process? What if, when he came back, there was nothing left between them but a memory of what might have been?

  It’s only three months.

  Things won’t change that much.

  He won’t change.

  Franco wanted to listen to the logical voice inside his head, but other thoughts drowned it out. He tried to think about how Ben looked at him, as though Franco was more than the chaos he carried, more than the jokes and bravado he hid behind. But that fear was always there, whispering at the edges of his thoughts.

  The last two weeks had been perfect but fleeting in their own, fragile way. Every moment had felt as if it had been dipped in gold, bright and precious because he knew it couldn’t last. Service at the restaurant, nights in Ben’s flat or his, the laughter of the staff—all of it had blurred into something dreamlike. And yet, underneath the lightness, he carried the weight of the countdown.

  Every day crossed off the calendar brought him closer to goodbye.

  He’d caught himself watching Ben more often than he should, storing up little things for later: the way he hummed under his breath when he was concentrating; how he brushed his hair back when it fell into his eyes; and the dry, quiet wit that snuck up when Franco least expected it. He wanted—no, needed—to remember it all.

  Because tomorrow, he’d be on a plane. Tomorrow, he’d be chasing the dream he’d wanted since he was a boy at his Nonna’s table.

  And tonight?

  Tonight, he wanted to believe that dream didn’t have to mean letting go of Ben.

  Ben woke before the alarm like he always did, his body trained now to the rhythm of the restaurant, of mornings that came too early and nights that stretched too late. But this morning, he didn’t move, unwilling to shift from the warmth pressed against him.

  Franco lay tucked against his chest, his hair a messy tangle that smelled faintly of sugar and soap. Ben had his arm curved around Franco’s waist, his palm spread flat, feeling every steady rise and fall of his breathing. It should have been comforting but in reality, it was torture.

  Every breath was a reminder that tomorrow, this warmth would be gone.

  He closed his eyes, tried to fix the moment in his memory. The weight of Franco’s body fitted against his. The soft exhale against his collarbone. The way his hand had at some time in the night found its way to Ben’s chest and rested there, as if to anchor himself even in sleep.

  Ben could almost hear the clock ticking, louder than usual, mocking him with the truth.

  Their time together was slipping away.

  He wanted to whisper the words crowding his chest, pressing against his throat. But they felt too heavy for a morning that should have been gentle. If he let them out, would Franco hear them as love—or as a chain to bind him with?

  Instead, Ben did what he knew, what felt safe. He brushed his lips against Franco’s hair, then along his temple, unhurried and lingering. Franco stirred, a soft humming escaping his lips that reverberated through Ben’s chest.

  Ben stroked down Franco’s side, his fingertips tracing the familiar curve of his hip. He pressed kisses along Franco’s jaw, coaxing him awake with warmth instead of words.

  Franco shifted toward him with a low sound, a smile flickering even as his eyes stayed closed.

  “Morning,” Ben murmured against his skin, his voice hushed, careful.

  “Mm. Feels more like night,” Franco teased, his tone warm and intimate.

  Ben kissed him then, slow and deliberate, pouring everything he couldn’t say into the press of his lips. It wasn’t a plea or even a goodbye.

  It was living in the moment.

  He rolled Franco gently onto his back, covering him with his own, their bodies aligning with practiced ease. His hands skimmed bed-warmed skin, mapping every inch he already knew, relearning it so he’d never forget. Franco arched into him, responding in kind, but Ben set the pace, measured and unhurried.

  If this was one of the final times, then he was going to make it last, make it stretch.

  It would have to be enough.

  The lunchtime rush blurred past in a flurry of tickets and sizzling pans. When things had quietened, Franco retreated into the kitchen to help with the dinner prep.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28