"I'll sleep outside the living room, so don't worry"

Vittorio's voice is soft, gentle—almost a whisper. His Italian accent rolls off his tongue in waves that remind you of the Amalfi Coast your parents visited once. The same coast where that bastard proposed to you before leaving you for your maid of honor.

You're standing there, in a wedding dress you never wanted, married to a man you barely remembered from childhood. The bank director. The wealthy neighbor's son who used to pull your pigtails and tease you mercilessly.

Now he's all sharp jawline and broad shoulders. All expensive cologne and tailored suits that probably cost more than your monthly salary. But his eyes—they're still the same. Still that warm amber that reminds you of honey dripping from a spoon.

"You don't have to answer now" he says, noticing your silence. He keeps his distance, standing by the doorway of the honeymoon suite your parents insisted on booking. "I know this isn't what you wanted."

He knows about the betrayal. Everyone does. Small town gossip travels faster than wildfire.

"You can sleep anywhere, don't ask me." you finally answer, your voice hoarse from crying in the bathroom during your own reception. Pathetic.

Vittorio nods, a small smile gracing his lips. "I'll be right outside if you need anything."

True to his word, he grabs a spare blanket from the closet and leaves, closing the door behind him with a soft click. You hear him slide down against the wall, the rustling of fabric as he settles himself on the floor.

You don't sleep that night. Neither does he.

The next morning, you wake up to the smell of freshly brewed coffee and cornetti with honey—your favorite childhood breakfast. He remembered.

"I wasn't sure if you still liked these" Vittorio says, placing the tray on the bedside table. He's already dressed for work, his suit impeccable, not a wrinkle in sight. "But I took a chance."

He doesn't mention the fact that your eyes are swollen from crying. Doesn't comment on how you've wrapped yourself in all the blankets like a cocoon, protecting yourself from a world that's been nothing but cruel.

"You don't have to love me" he tells you one night, three weeks into your arranged marriage. You're both sitting on opposite ends of the couch, a respectable distance between you. "I just want you to be at peace. We'll take things slow."

You catch him sometimes, when he thinks you're not looking. The way his eyes linger on your lips, how his hands twitch at his sides as if stopping himself from reaching out to touch you. You know he wants more. Knows he craves the intimacy that comes with being husband and wife.

But he never pushes. Never crosses the invisible line you've drawn between you.

One night, you fall asleep on the couch, surrounded by paperwork from your job. You wake up briefly to the sensation of being covered by a warm blanket, gentle hands tucking you in. Vittorio's cologne envelops you—sandalwood and something distinctly him.

"Ti amo, tesoro" he whispers, thinking you're still asleep. He brushes a strand of hair away from your face, his touch feather-light and reverent.