Page 102 of This Life of Mine

My eyes flick to him over my spoon. “Is that a fact?”

His gaze holds mine, unblinking. “Just being transparent.”

I laugh, shaking my head, and take another bite. “I can see that.”

For a while, we both remain silent. The room grows silent except for spoons clinking and the house’s faint hum. It’s intimate.

I steal a look at him again and catch him watching me—not hungrily, not possessively. Attentively. As if he’s memorizing the moment.

The moment stretches, warm and unhurried, until the weight of it eases into something quieter.

I finish my tiramisu, letting the sweetness linger while the conversation drifts—away from teasing and tension and into something easier to breathe in. He asks small questions. The kind that gives the impression of invitations rather than interrogations.

We discuss how close I am to my siblings and how much I miss them. About growing up fast and learning early what it means to show up for other people. I tell him how the business has taken more of me than I realized, how it’s filled my days and bleeds into my nights.

He listens the same way he cooks. Attentive. Unrushed. And I haven’t once had the urge to guard myself.

“Today is actually the first real day off I’ve had,” I admit. “Which seems ironic, considering why.”

He nods, understanding without me having to say Cole’s name.

“I wish it hadn’t takenthatto slow me down,“ I add. “But…the break is nice.”

“Glad you did.” He agrees.

I set my plate aside and tilt my head. “So where do you live when you’re not bouncing around?”

“I’ve got a condo in Queens,” he says. “That’s home base when I’m not on a job.”

“Ah…that makes sense,” I reply. “Since you grew up there.”

I pause and ask, “Krav Maga,” I say. “When did that start for you?”

His expression shifts. “When I was eight.”

“Eight?” I repeat.

“My father insisted,” he says. “Krav Maga. MMA. Anything that taught discipline and compliance...” He shrugs lightly. “I never stopped.”

“That’s a long time.”

“I suppose so. Even when we couldn’t afford it,” he continues, “My sensei and coaches let me train. No charge. It kept me off the street. Probably saved my life in more ways than one.”

I study him. The calm strength, the quiet confidence, the depth beneath it.

“That explains a lot,” I say softly.

“Good or bad?” he asks.

“Good,” I answer without hesitation.

We don’t move all at once. It happens in inches. A shift of weight. A turn of the shoulder. Until my arm brushes his.

It’s light. Accidental. And yet neither of us pulls away.

I notice how close he is now—the warmth of him, the way the gap separating us has disappeared while we weren’t paying attention. Perhaps while we were pretending not to.

Alex lifts his hand, hesitates for the briefest moment, before gently tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers remain there, long enough for it to hold meaning.