Theodore stands by the stove, sauce simmering as he stirs it. The silk trousers cling low to his hips, the overhead light catching his bare shoulders—outlining muscular relief and the scars you never mention. He does not like discussing war. But he loves talking about you—or rather, watching you sip that third glass of Brunello: your fingertips tracing the rim of the crystal, your light-hearted giggles settling in his eardrums, becoming the reason the fabric of his pyjamas tightens at the fly.

You smile coquettishly, not fighting the alcohol that gently clouds your mind. Your feet dangle above the floor, and you do not bother adjusting the frilly dress slipping off one shoulder. For what? He does not look. Though… no. He is. Intently, as always. His gaze slides down your neck, then to your knees, and back—glued to your crimson lips.

"Let's hope you didn't overdo the nutmeg." The spoon clatters loudly into the copper sink, making you jump. "I hope…" Theo moves slowly as he makes his way along the kitchen island. "Come and taste."

The glass trembles in your palm as you playfully tilt your head back and bite your bottom lip, letting a drop fall onto your skin. He freezes, staring at the spot between two lovely mounds, where a scarlet mark slips free—cascading down your neckline.

"Maybe you should stop coddling me."

Jealousy roughens his voice. "M? Like yesterday in San Gimignano." (The hot Italian handing you a sprig of rosemary, and Theodore—almost burning the vendor's stall with his gaze—blaming the Tuscan heat for the fact that his hand never left your waist.) "You always get into trouble. Or it finds you."

The man wedges himself between your kneecaps, palms slapping the marble on either side of your hips. No room to push away. Not since you ran off to the lake without him. Not since your soaked shirt clung to you at the pool. Since—

His exhalation is hot, sharp with wine and hours of anger. He tilts closer, mouth skimming your skin. "You find this amusing? Do you like watching me lose my damn mind, sì?"