That surprised him.
“Enjoy what?”
“Having my life in your hands.”
His expression hardened, not in anger but in something colder and more private. “No.”
I searched his face for sarcasm, or performance, or the easy cruelty rich dangerous men liked to pretend was honesty.
I found none.
“Then why do it?”
He was quiet so long I thought he might not answer.
“Because I was raised to believe some debts define a family.”
“And now?”
He looked at me in a way that made the question feel larger than I had meant it to.
“And now,” he said, “I’m not sure.”
That should have relieved me.
Instead it frightened me more.
Because uncertainty in a man like Roman Castelli meant the ground under both of us was shifting.
The library became the second place that belonged to me.
Or rather, the second place where I forgot I didn’t belong.
The shelves had been arranged by a man who liked ownership but not use. Leather-bound histories beside architectural folios beside rare maps shoved wherever space allowed. No novels. No poetry. No evidence that anyone had ever sat in that room and read for comfort.
I began reorganizing it on a rainy Thursday just to keep from unraveling.
Italian history on one wall, American business archives on another, maps together by region and century. I left slim notes on Post-its where I found cross-references, questions, observations. It was habit. It was nerve. It was probably trespassing in a very specific intellectual way.
I was standing on a library ladder with a stack of atlases in my arms when Roman appeared in the doorway.
He took in the room. The moved shelves. The labeled sections. The rare map collection finally grouped together where light could actually reach it.
“You rearranged my library.”
“It was crying for help.”
One eyebrow lifted.
“You left sixteenth-century naval charts next to tax law.”
“I knew where everything was.”
“Congratulations. So does every dragon.”
A sound almost like a laugh escaped him before he could stop it.
That was worse than the almost-smiles. It felt more intimate.
He came farther in, looking around in silence.
“You put the map collection by the windows,” he said.
“They deserve daylight.”
“You wrote notes.”
“Yes.”
“In my books.”
“Yes.”
He turned to me then, and there was heat in his eyes that had nothing to do with anger.
“You behave like someone who thinks she’ll be here a long time.”
The words landed harder than he intended them to. I could hear it.
I climbed down from the ladder slowly.
