And suddenly I can’t just stand there.
I bend and start gathering things off the coffee table—used napkins, little dessert plates dusted with powdered sugar, half-empty lemonade glasses. I don’t even know what I’m doing exactly, only that my hands need something, something simple and manageable.
I stack a plate too hard. It clicks against another.
Antonio turns from the door. “Elsa.”
“I’ll just clean this up,” I say quickly, not looking at him. “It’s fine.”
He crosses the room silently, and it’s somehow louder than a shout.
“You don’t have to do that. I’ll take care of it. Whydon’t you rest?”
“That’s all right,” I say, still too fast, reaching for a glass. “I don’t mind.”
My fingers close around it, but before I can move, his hand wraps gently around my wrist.
I freeze.
He takes the glass from my hand and sets it back down on the table.
“What’s wrong?”
My heartbeat jumps into my throat.
“Nothing,” I say immediately, and I hear how false it sounds.
I reach for the napkins instead. He catches those too, pulling them lightly from my fingers and setting them aside like I’m a child grabbing sharp knives, then he takes my other wrist.
“What’s wrong?”
He slides his hands up and closes them around my arms, forcing me to hold still.
I keep my eyes on the middle of his chest.
Because if I look at his face, I might say it.
And once I say it, it becomes real.
His grip isn’t tight, but it’s enough. Enough that I can’t keep pretending I’m very busy with paper napkins and pastry crumbs and anything else that isn’t this.
“Elsa.”
Just my name. Quiet, calm, patient.
I keep my eyes on the center of his shirt. On the button I can make out near his sternum. Anywhere but his face.
“What happened?” he asks.
I swallow. My throat feels too small.
“Nothing happened.”
The lie is weak. We both hear it.
Antonio exhales through his nose, and one of his hands slides up my arm, slower now, gentler, then up to my cheek.
My pulse jumps. I finally make myself look up.