Evening fell heavy like an old coat.
Matteo's car pulled into the villa's courtyard just past eight.
The air had cooled, brushing through the olive trees lining the drive, but he barely felt it.
He stepped out, nodding once at the guards before entering the grand foyer.
Lights glowed warm in the hallway, muted against the silence of the house.
The scent of roasted lamb and herbs lingered faintly in the air, a reminder that someone still remembered it was dinner time.
He hadn't.
Matteo moved without thinking, straight toward the stairs.
"Matteo."
The voice stopped him mid-step—calm, low, firm. It belonged to only one man.
He turned.
At the dining table, Don Luciano sat at the head, napkin still untouched in his lap, a half-filled glass of red resting beside his plate. A silver dish sat covered in front of the seat on his right. Matteo's place.
"Sit," his father said, not unkindly.
Matteo hesitated. His hand gripped the stair railing a moment too long. "I'm not hungry."
"You don't have to be. Just sit."
The tone was final—not commanding, not coaxing. Just enough weight to make disobedience feel like a wound.
Matteo exhaled quietly through his nose, then walked back, slipping into the seat beside him.
A servant came to lift the cover, revealing his plate. Steamed vegetables, soft bread, slices of meat still warm. He didn't touch it.
Don Luciano watched him for a long moment, chewing slowly before speaking again.
"You look tired."
Matteo didn't respond.
"You've lost weight," his father added, cutting into the silence. "How about… Felix… any change?"
A pause.
Matteo kept his eyes on the edge of his plate. "No."
"I see."
The clink of a fork against porcelain filled the air for a few seconds.
"You've been working late," Don Luciano continued. "Bianca tells me you haven't been sleeping. That your temper's been... sharp."
Matteo gave a small, bitter breath of a laugh. "She talks too much."
"Or maybe you talk too little."
He finally looked at his father. The old man's gaze was steady, neither accusing nor soft. Just watching. Waiting. Like he had done since Matteo was a boy who refused to cry when his mother died.
"I can't force you to speak, Son," Don Luciano said quietly. "But you are not made of stone. Don't pretend you are."
"I'm not pretending," Matteo said, his voice low. "I'm surviving."
Luciano's hand slowed around his fork. "Then survive wisely."
Another silence stretched between them.
Matteo pushed his plate away.
"I'll eat later."
He stood.
Luciano didn't stop him this time. He just nodded, once. "He's family, Matteo. Not just a name on your payroll."
Matteo paused by the door but didn't turn.
His voice came barely above a breath. "I know."
Then he left the room, footsteps quieter than when he'd arrived.
The hallway upstairs stretched out quiet, each step Matteo took softened by the thick carpet beneath his shoes.
The sconces along the walls cast a golden hue, throwing shadows that swayed with his movement—like silent company he hadn't asked for.
He paused at the end of the hall.
Felix's door was still shut. Still untouched. Still not here.
Matteo's hand hovered near the doorknob—just for a second. Then it fell to his side.
He turned away.
In his room, the lights were dim. A tray of untouched fruit and a decanter of whiskey waited on the sideboard, just like every other night. Someone was trying. But he wasn't.
Matteo unbuttoned his shirt slowly, movements mechanical, shedding the day one layer at a time.
He tossed the shirt aside, left the belt half-undone, then sat at the edge of the bed—elbows on his knees, head in his hands.
For a long while, he didn't move.
His eyes burned, not from tears, but from the weight behind them.
The kind that didn't fall. The kind that sat heavy on your bones.
He reached for the whiskey eventually, poured without thinking, and took a sip. It bit the way it always did, sharp and numbing. Useless.
The night deepened.
Outside the balcony, the wind rustled the trees.
The villa was silent again, except for the low hum of cicadas far in the dark.
Matteo stood, walked to the window, and leaned against the frame.
Somewhere in the city, machines beeped in rhythm beside a motionless body. Felix still hadn't woken.
He didn't know what he was waiting for anymore—an apology? A miracle? Himself?
The glass in his hand trembled slightly.
He tightened his grip.
Then, without finishing the drink, Matteo set it down, walked back to bed, and sat.
He didn't lie down.
Just sat there.
Watching the dark.
Until sleep took him—not gently, but like a weight pulled over his eyes.
The sky was silver.
Not bright. Not dark. Just endless gray, thick like mist, quiet like a church.
Matteo stood in the middle of it—no walls, no ground, just space. Stillness.
And then—
A hand brushed his shoulder.
He turned sharply.
Felix was there.
Standing just a few steps away, in that familiar black shirt, sleeves rolled up, tie loose.
His hair was perfectly a mess, as always, and his smile—soft, crooked, the kind that never tried too hard—settled like a knife in Matteo's chest.
"Fix your tie," Felix said, his voice light, teasing.
Matteo blinked, frozen. "Felix…"
Felix stepped closer, reaching up to straighten Matteo's collar with both hands.
The way he always did, like he'd done it a thousand times. His fingers grazed Matteo's neck—warm. Real.
Matteo couldn't breathe.
"I—wait, don't go," he whispered, voice cracking. "Please…"
Felix just smiled again, gaze gentle, like he already knew something Matteo didn't.
"No," Matteo reached for his wrist—
But his hand passed through.
Felix began to blur, like fog caught in sunlight.
"Felix—!"
He lunged forward, desperate to hold on—but Felix was gone. Just like that. Swallowed by the gray. No sound, no echo. Just absence.
He shouted his name again and again—spinning, searching, frantic.
"Felix! Felix, where are you?!"
Nothing.
Only the echo of his own voice crashing back into silence.
Matteo woke with a jolt.
"Felix—!"
His breath hitched. Chest heaving. Sheets tangled around his legs. The room was dim, early morning light seeping past the curtains.
His heart thundered. His hands trembled.
It took a full minute before he realized he was in his bed, alone. The dream still clung to him like wet cloth.
He ran a hand over his face, fingers pressing into his eyes, jaw tight.
He hadn't dreamed of Felix in years. Not like that.
Not smiling.
Not fixing his tie.
Not… slipping away.
Matteo sat there for a long time.
Then he slowly swung his legs over the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, breathing steadying bit by bit.
"Don't disappear on me," he murmured to no one, voice hollow.
Outside, the world was beginning again. But in Matteo's chest, something had cracked just a little deeper.