Operation Sunshine, page 22
This one had edges, sharp and unspoken.
Ben brushed a thumb across Franco’s temple. “What time’s your flight again?”
“Late evening. Just before ten. Gives me most of the day.”
Ben’s fingers lingered in Franco’s hair, combing through it gently, absently, as if memorising its texture. “Do you want me to come with you to the airport?”
Franco’s chest tightened. He’d been rehearsing this in his head for days, telling himself it was kinder, easier, to make a clean break at the flat. Airports were brutal, all sterile light and forced goodbyes. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—watch Ben fade behind security glass.
“No,” Franco said, too quickly. He caught Ben’s flinch, subtle but there, and his heart ached. “I mean… I don’t want to remember you there. Standing behind the barrier, waving. That’s…” He trailed off, searching for the words. “I’d rather say goodbye here. Where it’s just us.”
Ben’s eyes softened, although his jaw worked as if he were biting back a dozen replies. Finally, he nodded. “All right. Here, then.”
Franco exhaled shakily, relief and regret twined together. He pressed a kiss to Ben’s chest, over the steady thrum of his heart. “Thank you.”
They lay there longer than they should have, Franco clinging to the illusion of an ordinary morning. Ben eventually got up and went into the kitchen, and soon the scent of brewing coffee filled the flat. Franco joined him, barefoot, wearing one of Ben’s T-shirts, pretending for a little while longer that this was simply another ordinary day.
But reality crept in with every glance at the clock, every thought of what waited for him at his own flat. His suitcase wasn’t zipped. His passport still lay on the counter. Florence loomed, as thrilling as it was devastating.
Ben poured them both mugs of coffee, then sat across from Franco at the table. They talked about nothing consequential, the pastry case that needed restocking, Raj’s latest obsession with wine pairings, Ollie’s terrible playlist. Their voices wove around the silence, filling it with mundane threads, as though talking about work could anchor them in the familiar.
The moment came when Franco couldn’t pretend anymore.
He set his mug down too hard, the ceramic clink loud in the quiet kitchen. “I should go. I still have packing to do.”
Ben’s eyes flicked to him, his gaze unreadable. Then he nodded. “Yeah.”
The finality in his tone nearly undid Franco. He stood, walked around the table to where Ben sat, and pulled him up by the hand. Their kiss wasn’t frantic like the night before, but soft, lingering, desperate in its restraint. Franco poured everything into it—all the words he couldn’t say, all the love he couldn’t voice.
All the hope he was terrified to name.
Franco’s hand was on his neck, connecting them as they kissed, unhurried and tender.
Ben felt the kiss like a brand, gentle, aching, full of everything Franco wasn’t saying. And when it broke, Franco pressed their foreheads together and whispered, “When I get back… I hope…”
Something deep inside Ben cracked.
“Me too,” he whispered back, because it was all he trusted his voice to carry.
Franco stepped away, the space between them opened, and Ben’s chest screamed with the pressure of all the words he longed to give voice to.
What if I never get another chance? What if the plane takes Franco away not just for three months, but forever?
Before he could stop himself, he spoke.
“Franco—wait.”
Franco turned, his hand still on the strap of his bag, his eyes dark and uncertain.
Ben’s throat worked, dry as sand. He’d never been good at baring his soul, letting anyone see past the armour he wore like skin.
But Franco had already seen it all. Franco had undone him piece by piece until there was no armour left.
“You should know…” Ben’s voice shook, but he pushed on. “You’ve changed me, more than I thought anyone could. When I came here, I was… angry. Lost. Convinced I could build something new without ever really letting people in. And then you—” He broke off, shaking his head, a helpless laugh escaping. “You blew into my life like a bloody hurricane. Loud, chaotic, impossible to ignore. And somehow… you made me want to stay. To fight for this place. To fight for… you.”
Franco’s breathing hitched, his expression crumbling at the edges.
“I don’t know what’s going to happen when you’re gone,” Ben admitted, his voice raw now, spilling fast as though if he didn’t let out what he was feeling, it would choke him. “And maybe you’ll come back and everything will be the same. Or maybe it won’t. But if I never get the chance to say it again, I need you to know: I’m not the man I was when you met me. And that’s because of you.”
Franco’s eyes shimmered in the heavy silence that followed, his lips parting as though the words were there, right there, if only he could let them fall.
But instead, he only whispered, “Ben…”
And God, the way he said it.
Like an ache.
Ben forced himself to smile, his chest burning. “Go on. Finish packing. And don’t miss your flight.”
Franco gave a sharp nod and took another step back. Another lingering glance.
Ben surged forward, grabbing Franco’s head, their lips colliding in a fervent kiss. Ben poured his heart and soul into it, all the emotions he couldn’t reveal.
He had to let go at some point.
Franco took a deep breath. “Goodbye.”
And then he was gone, the door shutting with a soft click that sounded far too loud in the quiet flat.
Ben stood there, his chest heaving, staring at the door as though sheer will might bring Franco back. The silence that followed was deafening. It pressed in on him, thick and heavy, filling the space Franco had just occupied. The air still smelled faintly of him—soap and coffee, the citrus tang of his shampoo—and Ben’s chest ached as if he’d been hollowed out.
He dragged a hand through his hair, pacing once through the hallway, then back again.
God, why didn’t I say it?
The words had sat on the edge of his tongue all night, all morning. I love you. Three syllables, so simple, and yet he’d swallowed them down, convinced that saying them hours before Franco left, would be selfish. A chain around his neck. A weight Franco shouldn’t have to carry to Florence.
But as the silence grew, so did the doubt.
What if I’ve made a mistake?
What if Franco needed to hear it?
What if those words are the anchor that make him want to come back?
Ben braced his hands on the wall, his head bowed. The thought of Franco in Italy, laughing, cooking, living, maybe finding someone else who lit him up the way he deserved, was a knife straight to the gut. And yet, wasn’t that the point? Franco deserved everything, even if it left Ben behind.
The temptation was brutal. He pulled his phone from his pocket and stared at it. He could call. He could run after him. He could go to Franco’s flat, knock on the door, and just say it. Strip himself bare, risk it all.
Fear rooted him in place. Fear it would sound like a plea, that if he spoke those words, and Franco left anyway, it would break him in ways he couldn’t recover from.
The quiet stretched, the flat empty around him. He finally sat on the couch, his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor as if the grain of the wood might give him answers.
For the first time in years, Ben was scared.
Franco’s flat felt colder than it should have. The suitcase lay open on the bed, half-packed, and the sight of it turned his stomach. He moved around the room like a ghost, folding clothes with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking.
Every corner of the flat felt wrong. Empty. Or maybe it was him who felt empty, stripped of something essential the second he’d walked out of Ben’s door.
He sat on the edge of the bed, his face buried in his hands.
God, he’d wanted to go back. Every step away from Ben’s flat had been torture, his feet dragging, his chest tight. The urge to turn around, to throw everything away and beg Ben to just hold him, had been nearly unbearable.
But he hadn’t.
Guilt gnawed at him, berating him for leaving at all, telling him he was putting miles between them when they’d barely begun. Guilt that even last night, when Ben had touched him as though he was the most precious thing in the world, Franco hadn’t had the courage to say what was burning in his chest.
I love you.
The words stuck like glass in his throat. What if saying them made it harder? What if it broke something instead of binding it? What if Ben didn’t feel the same—or worse, what if he did and it only made goodbye more unbearable?
Fear twined with longing, tightening his chest until Franco could hardly breathe. He pressed his palms over his eyes, fighting the sting.
Florence was everything he’d ever wanted. The stage was his dream, his chance to prove himself, to grow. And yet, for the first time, he questioned if a dream was worth the cost of leaving the person who’d made him believe he was worthy of more than flings and fast, messy nights.
He forced himself to stand, to keep packing, to fold shirts and tuck chargers into corners, as though movement might keep him from crumbling. But every task was haunted by Ben’s laugh, Ben’s hands, Ben’s voice whispering me too when Franco hadn’t been brave enough to finish the sentence.
He zipped the suitcase shut, the sound final and brutal. His chest ached as if he’d locked a piece of himself inside it.
And still, he told himself the same lie he’d been repeating for days.
It’s only three months. He’ll be there when I get back.
But in the quiet, his heart whispered the truth he couldn’t silence.
What if he isn’t?
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Ben opened the email on his phone as he walked up the narrow staircase to his flat, his thumb scrolling automatically.
Buonasera from Firenze! Franco had written at the top, and Ben could hear the sing-song brightness in his voice. The rest was a neat little list: the apartment near Santa Croce which sounded amazing, the intensity of Chef Gallo’s kitchen (“they work us like gladiators, but I’m learning so much”), and a snapshot of the Arno at dusk attached at the bottom, the sky painted gold and pink.
It was cheerful. Polite. Informative.
And it cut straight through him.
It could have been an update to anyone: Raj, Willow, probably even Franco’s grandmother. There was nothing in it that was aimed directly at Ben. No sly jokes, no confessions, no whisper between the lines that said I’m thinking about you.
Ben sank down onto the edge of his bed, his phone slack in his hand, staring at the words until they blurred. He should’ve been glad Franco was doing well, thriving and—God help him—happy, but the emails only made the distance wider, sharper. Franco’s voice was there in the words, but Franco himself was gone.
The flat was too quiet without him. The spaces where he used to move—the kitchen, the couch, the warm dent in the bed—felt hollow. Ben caught himself saving little stories from his day, ready to tell Franco, only to realise he had nowhere to put them. He caught himself reaching for his phone late at night, wanting to text I miss you, but he never did.
He wouldn’t be the one to pull on the thread Franco was clearly keeping neatly tied.
Ben tried to keep busy. He threw himself into the restaurant, into numbers and orders and late-night paperwork. It didn’t help. Franco was everywhere, in Ollie’s laughter when he dropped a glass, in the smell of simmering tomatoes and garlic…
In the silence that followed Ben home.
Three weeks. He’d only been gone three weeks, and it already felt like forever.
Ben swiped the phone off, set it face-down on the nightstand, and rubbed the heel of his hand against his chest where the ache had settled, dull and relentless. The worst part wasn’t missing Franco.
It was the gnawing fear that maybe Franco didn’t miss him back.
Ben had only come back into the office because he’d left his ledger behind. The door was half-closed behind him, allowing voices to drift through from the kitchen. He smiled to himself.
These guys could win gold in an Olympic talking event.
Then he caught Lexie mentioning Franco’s name, and he stilled, straining to hear.
“I’ve been in touch with him too.” Willow’s voice was low but audible. “Yeah, you’re right, he talks a lot about Ben. Like… a lot. Honestly, I feel guilty. After all, Operation Sunshine was my idea. Well, Operation Distracto, originally. Raj came up with the sunshine part, remember?”
Ben frowned. What on earth…
There was a sharp clatter, like a mug hitting the counter, then Mina’s voice sliced in. “Wait—Operation Distracto? What are you talking about?”
“Oh God, you weren’t in on this, were you?” Lexie said. “I totally forgot.”
“It was a joke,” Willow said after a moment’s hesitation. “Well, at first. You remember how Ben was… you know, driving us all insane with the moody brooding thing? Mr. Corporate? And Franco was doing what Franco always does, all charm and flirt, and… well, I thought maybe if Ben relaxed a little…”
Beats of silence.
“You mean you asked him to seduce Ben?” Mina’s voice rose in horror.
Lexie exhaled heavily. “It wasn’t exactly like that. I mean, maybe at first, yeah, it was about distracting him, but then it changed. I think Franco actually fell for him. Hard. You could see it.”
Willow’s voice softened. “Yeah. I knew it was serious when right after the staff retreat Franco told me it had gone beyond a joke, and that we should forget it. But by then… well, it was working. Ben was smiling, for God’s sake. He wasn’t carrying the world on his shoulders the way he did when he first got here. I told Franco as much, but we never brought it up again.”
Cold inched its way through Ben. What. The. Fuck?
Yet more silence followed before Mina spoke, her voice quiet and stricken. “So what they had…it wasn’t real?”
Lexie let out a small sigh. “Maybe it didn’t start out real. But the way it ended? I’ve never seen Franco look at anyone the way he looked at Ben.”
Ben expelled a long breath, his muscles frozen, his limbs heavy. Inside he felt numb. He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, but the doorframe seemed to be the only thing holding him up.
So that was how it had started.
A staff joke. A ridiculous scheme to handle the boss who was apparently too much for them. And Franco—dear God—Franco had played along.
He closed his eyes, trying to steady himself against the throb in his chest. He didn’t believe for a second Franco had been playing him. No way. What they’d had—what they’d shared in those last days—wasn’t something you could fake. He’d seen it in Franco’s eyes, felt it in every touch. That was real. It had to be.
But the rest of it—the knowledge that the people he trusted, the people he’d worked beside and defended and believed in—had thought so little of him they’d cook up something like this? That they’d laugh behind his back and set him up like some miserable punchline?
That cut deeper than he wanted to admit.
I thought I knew them. I thought I was part of a family.
And now?
He wasn’t sure if he could ever look at them the same way again.
His hand slipped from the doorknob, his fingers curling into a fist at his side. He went to his desk and dropped into the chair like a stone, the echo of Willow’s words following him like a shadow.
Operation Distracto.
Operation Sunshine.
It wasn’t only his relationship with Franco that had changed him—it was everything: the restaurant, the people, the very foundation he thought he was standing on.
Do I even belong here anymore?
One thing was certain. Ben was going to spend the rest of the day in his office, as far away from the staff as possible.
He had no clue what would come out of his mouth otherwise.
Ben let himself into his flat. It felt colder than usual, although maybe that was his mood distorting his senses. He didn’t bother with the lights, but dropped his keys in the bowl by the door and went straight to the couch, sinking down hard enough to make the springs groan.
The silence pressed against his ears. Normally, he’d put on the radio or the TV, just for the sound. Tonight, he wanted nothing, only him and the echo of voices he couldn’t stop replaying.
Operation Sunshine.
The phrase had looped through his head all day. Before this, he’d thought Willow’s teasing had been harmless, that Lexie’s barbs were just Lexie being Lexie. But all along, behind the laughter, behind the easy camaraderie—this.
He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and rubbed his face with both hands.
“God,” he whispered into the quiet. “What the hell am I even doing?”
Images slid unbidden through his mind. Franco in his kitchen, barefoot, laughing as he stole a forkful of pasta. Franco asleep on his chest, his hair falling across his brow. Franco whispering Ben, take me to bed in that voice that made Ben’s blood run hot.
None of that could have been fake. He knew it, right down to the marrow. And yet it had started as a joke. A scheme. Something to manage him, as if he was a problem to be solved rather than someone they respected.
He got up and walked over to the dark window, his own reflection staring hollowly back. If this was what his staff thought of him—if this was how little they trusted him—what was the point of holding on so tightly? Granted, he’d only poured months into that restaurant, but he’d also poured his sweat, his sanity, every ounce of fight he had.
And for what? To become the butt of a joke?
Ben’s jaw tightened. He could feel it, the itch to do something, to stop stewing and start acting.
An Exit Strategy. That’s what I need. An actual plan.
He’d sell the restaurant. It wasn’t impossible; hell, the place was profitable, and it had a decent reputation. With the right broker, it could move quickly enough. And with the proceeds… well, he could walk away clean. No messy confrontations, no begging for loyalty that should have been there all along.
