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11

ALESSIA

T he hospital's fluorescent lights are too bright and too cold. I squint against them, rubbing the exhaustion from my eyes as I head toward the exit. My shift finally ended, and the ache in my feet is a dull throb. The world outside is still dark, the kind of early morning darkness that feels more like night clinging on, refusing to give way to dawn. I run my hand down my face, the warm air rushing to meet me as I step outside.

Romiro is waiting, leaning casually against his car. I notice he doesn’t have the usual coffee cup or pastry bag in hand, and something twists inside me—something small and sharp, but I swallow it down. His face is unreadable, his usually light eyes are clouded under the streetlight. I can’t tell if he’s angry, tired, or something else entirely.

He looks up as I approach, offering me a tight-lipped smile, the scar on his upper lip stretching but the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Hey,” he says simply, opening the passenger door for me.

“Hey,” I mumble back as I slip in, feeling the familiar hum of his car vibrating beneath me. He shuts the door with a soft click and circles around to the driver’s side, sliding in without another word.

The silence between us is thick, nearly suffocating. I try to think of something to say, something to break through the tension hanging in the air, but I don’t know where to start. The car pulls away from the curb, and I finally manage, “So, where are we going?”

He glances over at me, his expression still carefully neutral. “The diner,” he replies, his voice low, clipped. “Thought we should talk somewhere… quieter.”

My heart sinks a little, and I nod, biting my lip. The diner. Our diner. The little hole-in-the-wall diner. The place we used to sneak off to as teenagers, escaping the noise and chaos of our families. The place where we laughed over cheap coffee and greasy fries, where we told each other secrets that no one else knew. It feels like another lifetime.

The drive is short, but it feels like it stretches on forever. And I spend it sneaking glances at Romiro, trying to read his face, but he’s giving nothing away. His hands grip the steering wheel tightly, his jaw set. I feel a knot forming in my stomach, my anxiety growing with every minute of silence.

When we finally pull up to the diner, it looks almost the same as it always has—small, cozy, with its worn-out sign and its neon lights flickering slightly in the early morning dark. But there’s something different. It’s too quiet, no other cars in the lot, no movement inside.

Romiro steps out, coming around to open my door again, his movements quick, almost impatient. I follow him toward the entrance, my eyes flicking over the empty windows. “Is it closed?” I ask, my voice sounding smaller than I intended.

“No,” he says, pushing the door open. “I rented it out for us. Just us.”

I blink, surprised. “You… rented the whole place?”

He nods, not looking at me. “Yeah. Thought it would be easier that way.”

Easier. Right. I swallow down the sudden tightness in my throat and step inside. The warm, inviting smell of pancakes and fresh coffee fills the air, and for a moment, I feel a wave of nostalgia wash over me. The walls are covered in old photographs, black-and-white pictures of families, smiling faces caught in moments that feel timeless. The old-fashioned light bulbs hang low, casting a soft yellow glow over the empty booths.

The owner, Greta, an older woman with gray hair pulled back in a neat bun, gives us a small smile, her smile lines becoming more pronounced, from behind the counter. “Morning,” she greets softly, her eyes crinkling with kindness. “Your food’s almost ready. Just like old times, hmm?”

I force a smile, nodding. “Just like old times,” I echo, but my voice sounds hollow, even to my own ears. “How have you been, Greta?”

Greta nods her head, a soft smile still gracing her face. “Good, thank you, Alessia. How have you guys been?”

“Good, thank you for asking,” I tell her, and I see her face soften before she shoos us away to our corner. Romiro leads me to the booth near the back, the one we always sat in, away from the windows. The wooden seats are worn, the tabletop marked with years of memories. I slide in across from him, my hands folded in my lap, my heart beating too fast. He seems hesitant, almost like he doesn’t know where to start.

“Why did you rent out the whole place?” I ask softly, trying to meet his gaze.

He shrugs, his eyes drifting to the wall of photographs. “Wanted privacy,” he mutters. “Didn’t want anyone else listening in.”

I nod, waiting, but he doesn’t say anything more. The silence stretches, and I feel the knot in my stomach tighten. “Romiro… what happened last night? After the restaurant, I mean. You just… dropped me off and left. You didn’t say anything. I don’t understand.”

He sighs, running a hand through his dark hair, his gaze finally meeting mine. “What is there to understand, Alessia?” he replies, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice. “It was… it was a mistake, okay? I got carried away; we got carried away. And it shouldn’t have happened.”

I feel the words hit me like a slap, my breath catching in my throat. “A mistake ?” I repeat, my voice barely a whisper. “You think it was a mistake?”

He nods, looking away again. “Yes. We… we crossed a line. A line we shouldn’t have.”

I feel a sting behind my eyes, but I blink it away, my hands tightening into fists under the table. “So, what? You just want to pretend it didn’t happen? Go back to the way things were?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, his jaw working, his fingers tapping against the table. “Maybe we should,” he says finally, his voice low, almost defeated. “Maybe it’s better that way.”

I swallow hard, feeling like shards of glass are caught in my throat. “Better for who , Romiro? For you? Because it doesn’t feel better for me.”

He looks at me then, his expression conflicted, his eyes searching mine. “I don’t know, Alessia. I don’t know what to do with this… with us. We’ve been friends forever. I don’t want to lose that.”

A bitter laugh escapes my lips before I can stop it. “Right. Because staying friends is so easy when you’re pretending you don’t feel … something more.”

He flinches, just slightly, but enough for me to notice. “I’m trying to protect us,” he says quietly. “Trying to keep us from ruining something good.”

“Maybe it’s already ruined,” I shoot back, my voice sharper than I intended. The words hang heavy between us, and I immediately wish I could take them back.

He leans back, his expression hardening. “Maybe it is,” he murmurs, and the pain in his voice cuts deeper than I expected.

I look down, my vision blurring, my chest tight. “Fine,” I whisper. “If that’s how you feel.”

Greta approaches, setting down a plate of pancakes and bacon in front of us, the smell delicious, but I suddenly have no appetite. She gives us a small, concerned smile before retreating, leaving us alone again.

For a long moment, neither of us speaks. I stare at the food, my hands trembling slightly in my lap. I feel raw, exposed, like every nerve in my body is on edge. The silence stretches and once I’m sure that he won’t speak up, I pick up my phone and get up. His head snaps up, his eyes narrowing on me. “Where are you going?” he asks me.

“Home.” I keep my answer short. His brows knit and he looks confused.

“We haven’t finished talking,” he says.

Biting my lip I say, “Well, to me it seems like you’ve made up your mind, you seem to think that the other night was a mistake. So … I’m going home.” I inhale deeply after my long-winded rant, and I try to get out of the booth, but Romiro moves faster than me and blocks my exit. His eyes are narrowed, a frown settling on his face, and he looks as if hes been punched. I don’t wait for him to move out the way. I shuffle toward the end of the booth until we’re chest to chest. “Move, Romiro. I’m leaving.”

“The fuck you are. We’re. Not. Done. Talking,” he grits out.

“Well, to me, that ”—I pause pointing between us—“seemed like sitting in awkward silence. Not talking.”

He lets out a sigh before running a hand down his face and saying, “Listen, I’m sorry. I was trying to think of what to say.”

I hold up my hand. “It’s fine, Romiro. You don’t have to say anything. Since you’re not sure about it, we’re better off as friends. I can go back to the arranged dates my Nonna and Mamma love so much.”

Oh. He doesn’t like that. His face twists into a vicious snarl before he moves into my personal space. “Oh, so now you think that we’re better off as friends? You think you can go on your little dates, huh, Red?”

His face is now inches from mine. “Remember what I did to Frankie ?” He waits for an answer so I nod, and he continues, “I can make each of your little dates disappear like they never existed. Don’t test me, Red,” he warns.

“I don’t know what makes you think that I would ever allow you to control who I date, but that won’t happen,” I taunt, and his amber eyes move over my features, taking in the defiance I am sure is etched into the contours of my face.

Romiro lifts his hands, and they cradle my face, his thumb brushing lightly over my freckled cheeks. He leans in, his lips brushing over my own as he whispers, “Who said I need anyone’s permission to stop your so-called dates .” Before I can say anything back, his lips smash against mine, biting, tugging, and bruising, the taste of him filling my senses. He pulls back slightly, his breath hot against my ear. "Come with me," he whispers, his voice low, thick with something dark and hungry.

He takes my hand and tugs me out of the booth. My heart pounds in my chest, a wild, erratic rhythm that matches the intensity in his eyes. I don’t ask where we’re going; I already know. He leads me past the empty tables, past the lingering scent of coffee and pancakes, until we reach the narrow hallway at the back of the diner.

The light flickers overhead, casting long silhouettes against the white tile walls. I glance up at him, and there’s a wild, almost desperate look in his eyes that sends a shiver down my spine. Without a word, he pushes the bathroom door open, pulling me inside with a rough urgency that makes my breath catch.

The door to the bathroom slams shut behind us with a force that rattles the tiles on the walls. Romiro’s hand is at the small of my back, pressing me roughly against the cool, white tiles. His warm, labored breath brushes against my ear. I can feel the tension in his grip with how his fingers dig into my skin, almost bruising, like he’s holding on for dear life.

There’s no softness in his eyes now, only a dark, feral hunger that sends a jolt of adrenaline through me. He doesn’t wait, doesn’t hesitate. His mouth crashes against mine, hard, his teeth biting down on my lower lip with just enough force to make me gasp. I taste the metallic tang of blood, but he doesn’t relent; he presses harder, his lips demanding, punishing. And in between kisses I say, “We shouldn’t do this. Not here.”

“No?” he asks before lifting me effortlessly, shoving me onto the cold, unforgiving edge of the porcelain sink. My back slams against the mirror with a sharp thud, the pain radiating through my spine, but I barely notice it. His hands are already moving, rough and urgent, sliding up my thighs, pulling my work pants over my hips.

“Do you still think that we should be friends?” he snarls, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “Think we can go back to acting normal, pretending that you don’t crave me as much as I crave you?”

I try to catch my breath, try to speak, but he grabs my jaw with one hand, his fingers digging into my skin, forcing me to look at him. “Answer me,” he demands, his eyes blazing with something dark, something I’ve never seen in him before.

“No,” I gasp out, my heart racing. I don’t know if it’s fear or desire coursing through my veins, but I don’t care. I need this. I need him. I grab onto his shoulders, my nails digging into his skin, and he smirks, his grip tightening.

“Good,” he growls, his voice a rough whisper against my lips. “Because you’re going to take it. All of it.”

He yanks my panties aside, the fabric tearing slightly, and I feel a thrill shoot through me. Romiro pulls me off the edge of the sink and twists me around, his chest to my back, his fingers thrusted deep inside me. There’s nothing gentle about his touch, nothing tender in the way his fingers thrust inside me, rough and relentless, making me gasp, my head falling against the mirror with a dull thud. His other hand slides up to my throat, squeezing just enough to send a pulse of fear and arousal through me.

“We shouldn’t be doing this in a public restroom,” I whisper, turning to look away.

“But it feels good, doesn’t it, baby?” he coos, and my stomach swoops. Romiro’s grip tightens on my throat. “Don’t look away. I want you to see what you do to me.”

I force myself to meet his gaze, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps as he thrusts his fingers inside me, hard, his movements demanding, unyielding. He watches me with an intensity that makes my pulse race, his eyes dark and hungry. Romiro curls his fingers and presses the heel of his hand over my clit, his face close to mine as he asks me. “You like riding my fingers in a dingy restroom in the back of a greasy diner. Don’t you?”

He doesn’t wait for the answer before his fingers pull out abruptly, leaving me feeling empty and desperate. I was so close. Before I can even draw another breath, he undoes his belt with a swift, violent motion, his jaw clenched tight. He positions himself between my thighs, his hands gripping my hips with a bruising force. His eyes never leave mine as he thrusts into me in one hard stroke. I cry out, a mix of pain and pleasure ripping through me.

“Shut up,” he snarls, his voice a harsh whisper against my ear. “You don’t want the owner hearing your moans. Do you?” I shake my head, pushing my hips back into him. “Good.” He thrusts again, harder this time, and I bite back another cry, my fingers gripping the edge of the sink so tight my knuckles turn white. He’s hot like a furnace, his heat sears itself into my back, and all I can focus on is him—the way he fills me, stretches me, takes what he wants without asking.

His pace is brutal and relentless, each thrust slamming me harder against the mirror, making it rattle with the force. His hand moves to my hair, yanking my head back roughly, exposing my throat to his teeth. He bites down, hard, enough to make me gasp, and a dark chuckle rumbles in his chest.

“You think you can just do whatever you want?” he growls against my skin, his breath hot, burning. “Go on dates with other men? Make me feel things I shouldn’t about my friend ?”

His words are like a slap, and I feel a mix of anger and desire flood my veins.

“I didn’t make you feel anything you didn’t want to feel.” I try to push him away, but he’s stronger, and faster. He pulls out, twists me around to face him, pins my hands above my head, pressing them against the cold, tiled wall, his grip like iron.“I’m not done with you,” he whispers, his voice low and deadly. “Not even close.”

He thrusts deeper, his movements rough and punishing, and I feel myself tightening around him, my body betraying me. He knows it, too—he can feel it, the way my body responds to him despite everything, and it drives him harder, faster.

“Say it,” he demands, his voice raw. “Say you’re mine.”

I hesitate, and his hand tightens around my throat, cutting off my air, just enough to make my vision blur, and my breath stutter. “Say it,” he growls again, his lips brushing against my ear, and I feel a shudder run through me.

“I’m yours,” I gasp, the words barely audible, my heart hammering in my chest.

He releases his grip just enough for me to breathe, but his thrusts don’t slow; if anything, they become more frantic, more desperate. He slams into me, over and over, his breath hot against my neck, his hands everywhere—gripping, squeezing, marking me.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice dark, and possessive, and I feel the edge coming, sharp and hard, and I know I’m going to shatter.

And when I do, he’s right there with me, his growl vibrating against my skin, his hands clutching me so tightly I know I’ll bear the bruises tomorrow. But I don’t care. All I care about is him—this moment, this madness, this fire that burns between us, dark and dangerous and all-consuming.