I sigh and wait for Vinny.
The knock comes three minutes later. A controlled and precise two taps, the way everything about Vinny is.
Ollie is already moving before I reach the door. He doesn’t say anything, just positions himself slightly to the side of me, close enough to touch, far enough not to crowd. It’s instinct now. We don’t discuss it.
I open the door.
Vinny stands there holding a medium-sized brown box. He’s wearing black latex gloves.
I stare at them.
“You expecting surgery?” I ask.
The attempt at humor lands flat. Even I can hear it.
Vinny doesn’t smile. “Standard protocol.”
Ollie’s gaze drops to the box. “Front desk didn’t open it?”
“No.” Vinny steps inside and uses his foot to push the door shut behind him. “No return address. Handwritten label. It was left with the concierge about twenty minutes ago.”
“Left,” I repeat. “As in not shipped?”
“Correct.”
A flicker of heat runs under my skin.
Vinny sets the box carefully on the kitchen island, away from the food, away from anything personal. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t dramatize it either. The gloves aren’t theatrical—they’re procedural.
“You want to step back?” he asks.
I don’t move.
Ollie does. Not far. Just enough that he can see everything without crowding the space.
“Open it,” I say.
Vinny slices through the tape with a small folding knife from his pocket. The sound of adhesive giving way feels louder than it should in the quiet kitchen.
The smell hits first.
Paper. Ink. Nothing chemical. Nothing sharp.
He folds the flaps back slowly.
Inside, there’s tissue paper. Pink. Excessively neat. Vinny lifts it carefully. Beneath it is a stack of printed pages. A small velvet pouch. And a framed photograph.
My pulse doesn’t spike. It drops.
“Jesus,” Ollie mutters under his breath.
Vinny removes the photograph first.
It’s a still from a YouTube clip. I recognize the studio, the video setup. It’s from the My Stupid Heart video. I’m mid-song, head tilted back, eyes closed.
Across the glass, written in silver marker:
You meant this for me.