2. Tabitha

Tabitha:

I froze, the voice. It was deep, rough, and familiar.

I was alone. At least, I was supposed to be.

I turned, heart hammering, still clutching my burning hands mid-air.

The towel slipped loose with the movement. I gasped and reached out to it out of instinct, but it was too late.

It hit the floor in a useless heap around my feet.

“Fuck.” My tank top was wet from my hair and it was see-through and I was barely in good underwear.

There, standing in the doorway, was Enzo, my godfather.

Dressed sharp in his black slacks and white shirt, sleeves rolled up like he’d just stormed in from work.

His dark eyes locked on mine, widening with instant panic, not at my almost naked body, not at the awkward scene, but at the red, blistering mess that were my hands.

“Jesus, Tabby!” he cursed, dropping everything, phone, his keys, and what looked like takeout right onto the kitchen island with a loud clatter.

In two long strides, he was in front of me.

I was shaking, and embarrassment surged through me, but the pain was worse.

“I, my hands,” I choked out, blinking through tears.

“Don’t move,” he ordered, voice sharp but low. I started to bend for the towel out of sheer reflex, but another wave of pain shot through my palms.

I whimpered and stopped cold.

Enzo practically lifted me onto one of the bar stools with one strong arm, moving faster than my brain could keep up.

I sat there, almost naked, wet and mortified.

Yet all I could focus on was the agony in my hands and the frantic way he was tearing through the freezer.

“Where the hell, Got it.” He moved with so much speed and I almost felt guilty for causing him so much trouble.

In a minute, a bag of ice packs was on the table.

“You excel in this type of thing, burned yourself good.” He was out of sight for a minute, but was back with a towel. He stripped the ice off its pack and wrapped it in a towel, before pressing it against my palm.

What was that supposed to mean?!

I hissed, biting my lip to hold back another scream.

“Breathe, sweetheart. I’ve got you,” he said, eyes flashing with worry. His jaw was tight, brows drawn in that way they got when he was angry, or scared.

Terrified of the pain, and way too aware that I was sitting there almost naked in front of him and he hadn’t even blinked.

The ice burned almost as much as the pain had.

The tears that fell from my eyes didn't care whether or not I wanted them to fall. They just did.

“Shh, hey, hey,” Enzo’s voice had softened. “I know it hurts, mi amore. Just hold still for me.”

I tried. God, I tried.

But my shoulders shook, and a sob broke free. “It hurts so bad,” I whispered.

He pressed the ice pack a little more firmly, steady hands holding mine. “I know.” A beat passed. Then his voice dropped lower, rougher.

“But why the hell would you touch the damn thing without mitts, huh?”

I blinked through the tears. His dark eyes caught mine, and that’s when I saw it. Not anger, not judgment. Fear. Raw, unfiltered fear.

“I forgot,” I stammered.

“I wasn’t thinking. I just, panicked when I saw the smoke,” Another tear slid down my cheek.

"I didn't want to burn your house down,"

Enzo’s gaze softened even more. His thumb brushed a tear from the corner of my eye, careful not to touch my throbbing hands.

“Jesus, Tabby,” he whispered. “You could’ve hurt yourself.”

It was only then, when he pulled back slightly that his eyes finally roamed the rest of me.

I followed his gaze, my heart stopping cold.

I was still in my very wet and now transparent tank top.

His mouth parted just a little. His gaze locked for a second on my chest and I watched, wide-eyed, as something flickered behind his eyes.

I didn't know what it was, but I was sure it was something, unusual. I thought I had just imagined it, but after a few seconds of contemplating, I was sure I didn't.

I felt it. The air between us shifted. It was heavier and my body betrayed me. I felt the hard peaks of my nipples, tightening under his gaze.

A flush spread over my skin, and God help me, I felt the growing wetness between my thighs.

How could I react like this to my godfather?

My fingers fumbled, still aching, but I somehow managed to yank it around myself.

“I’m sorry!” I blurted, eyes wide with panic.

“Tabby,” he started, but I was already bolting.

Feet slapping against marble, I ran with my heart pounding, breath ragged, straight to my room and slammed the door shut behind me. I leaned against the closed door with my chest heaving.

What the hell had just happened?

My heart pounded so hard it echoed in my ears. I slid down to the floor, burying my face in my knees.

My skin still burned, but not just from the burn anymore.

Every nerve felt raw, like things were moving in them. Like some kind of charge.

Why had I reacted like that? Why did Enzo look at me the way he had?

"Relax, Tabby.” I tried to tell myself.

Why did I react like that too?

I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the images away, the way his jaw had tensed, the flash of heat in his gaze, the way his voice had dipped when he said my name.

I groaned and slapped myself mentally.

"Stop it, Tabby. You’re crazy."

I wrapped the towel tighter around me and crawled into bed, but even there, the questions wouldn’t stop spinning.

I remembered his words from years ago, after my parents' funeral.

"I’ll always be here for you, Tabby.” You’ll never be alone." And tonight, he had been. He’d rushed to me.

Protected me. Seen me. Too much of me.

I hugged a pillow to my chest and shut my eyes tight.

An hour later, a soft knock pulled me from my swirling thoughts.

“Tabby?” His voice, low through the door. “Come down. Dinner’s ready.”

I lay frozen for a second, heat rushing to my face.

Go down? After that? No freaking way.

But then my stomach growled, loud and angry. I sighed.

“Coming,” I slipped on an oversized T-shirt and shorts, something safe, and padded down the stairs with my heart in my throat.

The kitchen lights were warm and inviting. The air smelled like heaven. Roasted chicken, garlic, something buttery.

And there he was, setting plates on the kitchen island like it was any other night.

“What are you doing there?”

“Um, what are you doing here?” He glanced up, meeting my eyes with a flicker of amusement. “What do you mean? I own the place.”

“I mean, Nora said you wouldn’t be back until Monday."

“Change of plans.” He pulled out a stool and motioned.

“Sit,” he stated and I hesitated. Everything felt, strange.

I slid onto the stool. “Thanks,” I mumbled.

He nodded. Then he noticed my awkward grip on the fork.

“You can’t hold it, can you?”

I bit my lip and shook my head. Without a word, he pulled the plate closer and cut a piece of chicken. His eyes locked on mine as he lifted the fork.

“Open.”

“Tabitha.” His voice was soft, firm. “Let me.”

I swallowed, cheeks heating. Slowly, I opened my mouth, and he fed me.

The tension in the air was electric. His eyes held mine too long, and my pulse quickened with every bite.

I didn’t understand what was happening between us.