Page 19 of Enzo (Redcars #1)

NINETEEN

Robbie

Three whole days I did what I had to do for work, and then hid back in my room, and Enzo watched me go each time with an unreadable expression. It could have been relief or regret for all I know, and not once did he ask about John, but not once did he leave me alone.

At night, I’d lie awake, replaying that freaking alarm, and the man I’d seen and trying not to freak out that after Enzo and Rio went out to do whatever , Rio had disappeared for two entire days on business . In however long I’d been here, none of the guys had disappeared for that long, and no one would tell me where he’d gone in anything more than vague answers.

I was fucking this up, panic attacks and fear, when all I wanted was more kissing.

But then if we did that again, if he wanted me to sit with him and…

… I couldn’t do anything about it, couldn’t bring myself to think about touching him. I thought too much about how his hand brushed my back when he passed by and how his voice softened when he said my name. I wanted those moments to mean something. To be real, not just my imagination twisting things into something they weren’t. But if they were real, what would I do with them? What could I possibly offer in return?

Doing or saying anything, even letting myself hope—if I reached for more and it all crumbled, I’d lose the one person who made this whole mess of life feel survivable.

So I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. Wanting Enzo—wanting something I could never have—wasn’t worth the price of losing him.

But I wanted my body to work. I tried to ease the tension that vibrated in me whenever I looked at him. Forced proximity was a thing—all the romance books said so—and attraction to Enzo could be nothing more than this. I needed intimacy…

I think…

And finding someone other than Enzo to have it with so I could practice or learn or something.

I had to shut down my obsession with what his touch would feel like because he was my rock, and not think about how since the face in the window he was treating me like I was fragile again.

You are fragile.

Useless.

Sexless.

Enzo was steady. He was safe. And every time I let myself forget that, even for a second, the ground shifted. I refused to need more than what he was willing to give, so I shoved it all down, pretending I didn’t notice how my heart tripped when he brushed too close or his words settled in my chest, allowing me to breathe through panic.

Stupid fucking panic.

I wanted to sit on his lap. I wanted to be able to tell him that.

I can’t touch him.

I read my self-help books as if they were instruction manuals for fixing the broken pieces no one else could see. One of them said something about setting goals—about taking small steps toward the things you want. It made it sound simple, like all I had to do was name what I wanted and then build a staircase to get there. So I tried. Ultimate goal? Sex with Enzo. Or was it? A connection, maybe. Something real. Kissing, touching. Snuggling. Being close to him without my skin crawling, without my mind spiraling. Just… breathing next to him. How high did I shoot? I made a plan with tiny steps. Just one thing at a time. Like holding eye contact. Like standing close without flinching. Like asking for something without my voice shaking. Like not breaking when he said my name in that voice that made everything else go quiet.

Enzo didn’t know it, but every time he smiled at me, every time he said, “You’re safe,” I put another step in place.

I didn’t know where the staircase led, or if I’d ever make it to the top. But I knew who I wanted to find at the end of it.

Enzo.

And maybe me too.

The version of me who could reach for what he wanted without fear.

I had to believe he was in there somewhere.

So, I read.