The rain began in the late afternoon.
It arrived softly at first, a whisper against the windows, then deepened into a steady rhythm that wrapped the estate in sound. Mila noticed it as she finished her last task, the gray light outside thinning into something dimmer, slower. Rain always did this to her—it made spaces feel smaller, closer, as though walls leaned in to listen.
She was returning a tray to the kitchen when a message reached her.
Not an order. Not a summons.
A request.
"Mr. De Luca would like you to bring tea to the study," the housekeeper said, watching Mila carefully. "If you're finished."
Mila nodded, her fingers tightening briefly around the tray she now carried again. The weight of it felt familiar. Manageable. But the reason for it pressed harder than porcelain ever could.
The study door stood open when she arrived.
Alessandro was not seated behind his desk. He stood near the window instead, jacket removed, sleeves rolled to his forearms, his posture looser than she had ever seen it. He turned when he heard her steps, and something in his expression shifted—not surprise, not command, but awareness sharpened by intent.
"Leave it there," he said gently, nodding toward the small table near the fireplace.
She did, her movements careful, precise.
When she straightened, she expected dismissal.
It did not come.
"Stay," he said.
The word landed between them, simple and heavy all at once.
Mila hesitated. This was new ground. Not forbidden, not permitted—uncharted.
"Yes," she said finally.
He gestured toward a chair across from his desk, not beside him, not too close. Considerate. Deliberate.
She sat.
The rain filled the silence, drumming against glass, filling the space where words might otherwise rush in too quickly. Alessandro poured the tea himself, the quiet domesticity of the action startling in its intimacy. He set a cup before her before taking one of his own.
"You could have sent anyone," Mila said before she could stop herself.
"I could have," he agreed. "I didn't want to."
The honesty of it left her breathless.
He met her gaze steadily, no challenge in his eyes, no demand—only presence. He seemed almost… careful. As though each word was weighed not for effect, but for consequence.
"I'm not used to adjusting," he said after a moment. "People adjust to me."
Mila's fingers curled around the warm cup. "And now?"
"And now," he said quietly, "I find myself choosing restraint."
She looked up at him then, really looked, and saw the effort beneath the calm. The discipline. The risk.
"That isn't weakness," she said.
A pause.
"I know," he replied. "But it feels like exposure."
The admission settled into her, something soft and dangerous all at once. She had never heard him speak like this—not to her, not to anyone.
"I don't want to misunderstand," she said carefully. "My place here—"
"Is not in question," he said immediately. Too quickly. Then, more evenly, "You are safe."
The word mattered. They both knew it.
Another silence followed, but it was different now—less charged, more anchored. Like standing on the center of that bridge they both sensed, testing whether it would hold their weight.
"I won't cross a line you don't step toward," Alessandro said at last.
Mila's heart thudded once, hard.
"And if I never do?" she asked.
"Then I won't," he answered simply.
The rain softened outside, easing into something gentler.
Mila stood, the moment complete in a way she couldn't explain. "Thank you for the tea."
"Thank you for staying," he said.
She left the study with her pulse stea
dy, her thoughts anything but.
Alessandro remained where he was long after the door closed, watching the rain slide down the glass, feeling the unfamiliar steadiness of a boundary not enforced by power—but by mutual will.
The line between them still existed.
But now, it was no longer a barrier.
It was an understanding.
And for both of them, that was enough—for now.