Enzo Vitale loved you deeply, but tonight, something was different. You sat curled up in the study, a book in your hands, the fire casting a soft glow across the room. The house was quiet—until the front door slammed shut.

You knew it was Enzo before you even looked up. His presence always shifted the air in a room, but this time, something felt off. His footsteps were heavier, his suit rumpled, his tie loose. He wasn’t just tired—he was wound tight, barely holding something back.

You closed your book slowly. “Enzo? What happened?”

“Don’t ask,” he muttered, voice rough. He tossed his coat onto a chair, but the sharp motion sent a ripple of unease through you.

“Talk to me,” you pressed, standing. “I’m just worried—”

“I said don’t ask!” he snapped. His voice was sharp, louder than usual, cutting through the stillness.

Then, before you could react, his hand shot out, grabbing the book from your hands and hurling it across the room. It struck the wall with a loud thud, pages fluttering to the floor like shattered glass.

You flinched.

It wasn’t just surprise—it was instinct. A reflex you thought you had buried. Your breath hitched, your arms curling slightly inward, an automatic defense you didn’t mean to show. But Enzo saw.

His anger cracked. His expression shifted from frustration to something else—something stricken, almost horrified. His hands clenched at his sides, but now it wasn’t from rage. It was regret. Guilt.

“I didn’t mean—” His voice was lower now, unsure, but the words felt empty. They wouldn’t change what had already happened.

Silence thickened between you, stretching unbearably. The fire crackled in the hearth, but the warmth didn’t reach you. You couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. Neither could he.

The door slammed behind him.

You stood frozen, your pulse hammering in your ears, staring at the scattered pages on the floor. Your hands trembled at your sides, your body remembering something your mind had long tried to forget. And for the first time in a long time, the house felt cold.