He laughs. Short and surprised.
I like making him laugh. It changes his whole face, makes him look less like someone who hurts people for a living and more like someone who deserves to be happy.
“I meant what I said,” he tells me. “Last night. I care about you. And I know it’s complicated with Dario, with all of this, but I’m not going anywhere. Unless you want me to.”
“I don’t want you to.”
“Okay.”
“But I also don’t know what this is. Or what it means.”
“Does it have to mean something?” He picks up his pizza again. Takes a bite. “Can’t it just be... whatever it is?”
I consider this.
The neat little boxes I try to put my life in, Beth Taylor in one box, Stevie Reeves in another, Dario in a third, Saul in a fourth, they’re all falling apart. The boundaries are blurring. Everything is bleeding into everything else.
Maybe that’s okay. Maybe trying to categorize everything is what’s making me crazy.
“Okay,” I say. “It’s whatever it is.”
This man just walked into my trauma spiral and offered to rawdog reality with me like it’s casual. I’m indanger.
“Good.” He stretches out on my couch. Comfortable. Like he belongs here. “What are we watching?”
“What?”
“You’ve got a TV. I’ve got nowhere to be for a few hours. What are we watching?”
I blink at him.
He’s just... staying. Like this is a thing we do now. Like eating pizza on my couch and watching TV is just part of the arrangement.
“Have you seen The Princess Bride?” I ask.
“The what?”
“Oh my God.” I’m already reaching for the remote. “We’re fixing this immediately.”
Two hours later, Enzo is sprawled on my couch with his feet on my coffee table and an expression of mild betrayal on his face.
“He dies,” he says flatly. “And then he comes back. Because of love.”
“True love,” I correct. “Death cannot stop true love.”
“That’s not how death works.”
“It’s a fairy tale.”
“It’s ridiculous.”
“You loved it.”
“I did not.”
“You laughed at the Sicilian.”
“He was funny.”
