The knock came softer this time. Two taps, almost hesitant—nothing like Luca's flat, commanding rap against the wood. Emilia's fingers tightened around the glass, the condensation slicking her palms. She didn't move. Didn't breathe. The lamp cast a weak gold circle across the floorboards, leaving the rest of the room in shadow.
She opened the door.
Not Luca. A younger man leaned against the doorframe, one shoulder braced against the wood. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, forearms bare, tie pulled loose and hanging crooked. His dark eyes traveled down her body in a slow, unhurried sweep—the rumpled silk, the bare feet, the glass she held in both hands like a lifeline. When his gaze returned to her face, there was warmth there. Not the cold assessment of her husband. Something that made her stomach tighten.
"Sorry," he said, and his voice was easy, unbothered. "Didn't mean to startle you."
She shook her head, though she wasn't sure what she was denying. "I thought you were—"
"Luca?" A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "No. Just me." He paused. "Matteo. I work for your husband."
"I know who you are." The words came out before she could stop them. She saw his eyebrows lift, a flicker of amusement crossing his features.
"You do?"
She'd seen him at the wedding. Standing behind Luca, quiet and watchful, the only man in the room who didn't look at her like a transaction. She remembered the way his jaw had tightened when the priest said "man and wife." She remembered thinking: "You were there," she said instead. "At the church."
His smile softened, just slightly. "You noticed."
A silence stretched between them. He didn't step inside. Didn't move closer. He stayed in the doorway, one hand resting on the frame, his body angled toward her but not crossing the threshold. The air in the hallway was cooler than the room, carrying the faint scent of cigarettes and something expensive.
"Security lights," he said. "I was checking them."
She looked at him. The rolled sleeves. The loosened tie. The way his thumb traced a slow arc along the doorframe, idle and unhurried. A man checking security lights would have tools. A clipboard. A reason to be awake. He had none of those things.
"And they're fine," she said.
"They're fine."
Neither of them moved.
She should tell him to leave. She was in her nightgown—her wedding dress, still, silk wrinkled and damp from tears she'd wiped away. Her husband's house. Her husband's man. She knew the rules even if no one had spoken them: a wife did not stand in dark doorways with men who looked at her like that.
She didn't tell him to leave.
Matteo's thumb continued its slow arc along the doorframe. Once. Twice. The wood grain caught the lamplight, a pale line that held all his attention now that he'd stopped meeting her eyes. She watched him not watch her, the silence blooming between them like something fragile, something that would shatter if either of them spoke.
The glass of water sweated against her palms. She counted the seconds. One. Two. Three. He didn't move. Didn't glance up. Just traced that line, his jaw set, the boyish ease she'd seen at the wedding replaced by something careful and deliberate. A man holding himself back.
She should offer to close the door. Should say goodnight, Matteo. Thank you for checking the lights. The words were right there, lined up behind her teeth, a script she could follow into safety. She didn't open her mouth.
His thumb stopped. He looked at her then — properly, not the sweep from before, but straight into her eyes. The air went thin. She could hear her own heartbeat, feel the pulse in her throat, the way her fingers had started to tremble around the glass.
"Emilia." Her name in his mouth, soft and without titles. Not Mrs. Moretti. Not signora. Just her name, spoken like he'd been holding it too long.
She didn't answer. Couldn't. Her lips parted, but nothing came out.
He pushed off the doorframe, one small step forward. His shoe crossed the threshold — just the toe, just enough to break the line he'd been honoring. "You should go to bed." The words were practical. His voice was not.
"I know." The whisper scraped out of her, raw and thin. She didn't move.
Something shifted in his face. A tightening around the eyes, a muscle jumping in his jaw. His hand lifted from the doorframe, reaching toward her — not to touch, just reaching, his fingers hovering an inch from her wrist. She could feel the heat of him, the nearness, the space between his skin and hers like a held breath.
"If I stay," he said, his voice dropping low, intimate, "I'm not going to check any more lights."
The glass trembled in her hands. Water sloshed over the rim, cold against her fingers, a shock that brought her back into her body. She felt the ache in her bare feet from standing so long. Felt the silk nightgown clinging to her thighs. Felt the space between his waiting hand and her wrist, a millimeter of choice she didn't know how to make.
She didn't step back. She didn't close the door.