Page 9 of All is Not Lost

He obliges, handing me the bottle with a flourish. As the wine pours into my glass, reflecting the fading sunlight, there's a warmth that blooms inside me, one that hasn't stirred in a long time. It's not just the wine or the laughter; it's the presence of someone who sees the ivy-covered walls for what they are—barriers waiting to be softened by time and care. It both intrigues me and scares me. Giovanni is definitely dangerous, and right now, I’m playing with fire.

"Salute," Giovanni toasts, our glasses clinking gently.

"Salute," I echo, and as I take a sip, the rich taste of the wine seems to perfectly complement the unfolding sweetness of the moment.

The sun dips lower, casting a golden hue over the undulating hills. Giovanni's laughter rings out, clear and genuine, as he recounts a tale from his youth. I can't help but laugh along, the sound bubbling up from a place within me that's been quiet for too long.

"Your laugh is infectious," he says, his eyes crinkling with mirth.

I brush away a stray strand of hair, feeling the warmth of the setting sun on my face. "You're not so bad yourself," I reply, surprise lacing my voice at the ease settling between us.

He leans back on his hands, his shirt stretching across his broad shoulders, a relaxed pose that invites me to steal glances at him. The late afternoon light plays across his features, highlighting the strong line of his jaw and the soft curl of his dark hair. There's an undeniable attraction simmering between us, and it both excites and terrifies me.

"Tell me something, Sophia," he says, his tone shifting to something more serious. "Have you ever had your heart truly broken?"

The question catches me off guard, the vulnerability in his voice echoing my own hidden scars. I nod slowly, locking eyes with him.

"Yeah, you could say that," I confess, the words like stones in my mouth.

"Me too," he reveals, looking away momentarily before fixing his gaze back on me. "I loved once—deeply, fiercely—and when it ended, I thought I'd never recover."

His admission tugs at something inside me, a kinship formed in shared pain. "What happened?" I find myself asking, drawn into his story, eager to understand the man who's managed to chip away at my defenses.

"She… she didn't love me, not in the way I needed her to," he says softly. "It took me a long time to accept that some things just aren't meant to be."

There's an ache in his words that resonates with my experiences, a mirror reflecting my heartache. In this moment, I see Giovanni not just as a persistent charmer but as someone who's known loss and emerged still hopeful, still open to the promise of new beginnings.

"Is that why you're so determined to… to help me?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Partly," he admits, reaching for my hand. His touch is gentle and reassuring. "But also because I see someone extraordinary before me. Someone worth knowing, worth laughing with, worth sharing wine and stories under the Tuscan sky."

Gosh, this guy is good.

My heart flutters, his words folding around me like a blanket, soft and warm. I realize then that Giovanni's presence doesn't just bring joy—it brings a lightness to my spirit that I've sorely missed. It makes me even more suspicious of him. He always knows exactly what to say, and that’s definitely scary.

"Thank you," I say, the gratitude spilling from my lips before I can think better of it. "For all this and for not giving up on me."

"Never," he vows, his thumb tracing circles on the back of my hand.

As we sit there, our fingers entwined, the beauty of the Italian countryside stretching out before us, I feel the remnants of my walls crumbling.

Yet I can’t help wondering, what’s wrong with this guy? He’s too good to be true. He must be hiding something.

Right?

I take a deep breath, and the air tastes of wildflowers. Giovanni's hand is still in mine, his warmth seeping into my skin, grounding me. I've always been afraid to lean on someone else, afraid they'll pull away and leave me falling. But with him, it feels different. It’s terrifying, if I’m being honest.

"Can I tell you something?" My voice is a thread of sound, fragile and tentative.

"Anything," he replies, his eyes holding mine, a well of patience and understanding.

"It's just that…" I pause, grappling with the words and the fear that's lived inside me for so long. "I'm scared, Giovanni. Scared of opening up, letting someone in again. The last time I did, it broke me. I wanted to die."

The confession hangs between us, raw and exposed. Yet, looking into his eyes, I don't see pity. I see strength. I see sincerity.

"Being scared means you're about to do something really brave," he says quietly. His thumb strokes my knuckles, a soothing rhythm that echoes in my heartbeat.

"Is that what this is? Bravery?" I attempt a laugh, but it comes out more like a hiccup.