Rita's Point Of View
Steam rose from the marinara pot in thick curls, heavy with crushed garlic and fresh basil, obscuring the kitchen window that overlooked the sun-drenched courtyard. The afternoon heat in Italy was oppressive, but the warmth filling the small kitchen had nothing to do with the stove.
Charles pressed against my back, his massive chest solid and warm through the thin cotton of my sundress, his chin resting comfortably on the crown of my head. His long arms wrapped tightly around my waist, large hands resting flat over my stomach, anchored there as if he'd permanently taken root.
I could feel every breath he took, the rise and fall of his chest against my spine creating a rhythm I'd unconsciously started to match. My own breathing had slowed to mirror his, our bodies finding a synchronicity that felt both new and ancient at the same time.
