CHAPTER 83: PAUSE AND BREATHE

CHAPTER 83: PAUSE AND BREATHE
KRISTIAN

The sheets smell like paint and Luca. That’s probably why I didn’t sleep all through last night.

Or maybe it’s because I’m terrified everything is going to fall apart.

My mind spins like one of those old Swedish windmills my grandmother used to collect, blades turning too fast, too loud, impossible to stop.

Luca’s mouth on mine—then on my length. The pure bliss I felt taking a shower with him, and then the pure dread when I saw Giovanni’s expression.

The mess we made.

It replays over and over, and each time, I ask myself the same question: What’s going to happen now?

Both between Luca and me and between Luca and Gio.

Have we been busted before we even had the chance to officially acknowledge or start anything?

I’m still lying in bed, eyes fixed on the ornate ceiling, when a knock slices through the silence. One sharp rap.

My chest tightens as I sit up quickly. “One moment!”

I don’t even bother to check the mirror. I know my hair’s a disaster. I know I look like I’ve had maybe twenty minutes of sleep, but there’s only so much I can do. I open the door.

Henrik stands there, crisp and composed as always in a navy-blue linen suit. His blond hair is slicked back, and his mouth is set in a straight line.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just looks at me.

Shit.

Did Giovanni tell him? Is this it? Am I going to have to explain to the Swedish royal press why the Crown Prince of Sweden was showering with—

“You’re not getting ready?” Henrik says finally. His tone is flat, almost bored.

I blink. “Sorry?”

He raises a brow. “We have an outreach event in forty minutes, Prinsen. It’s on the schedule.”

I exhale hard, gripping the edge of the door like it’s a lifeline. “Right. Yes. I was just about to shower.”

Henrik doesn’t smile. He never does. “Good. We’re meeting in the west courtyard. It would be advisable not to be late.”

“I won’t.”

He bows slightly and walks away.

I shut the door and lean my forehead against it.

Just an event. Giovanni didn’t report us. At least, not yet.

I rub my face with both hands and force myself into motion.

The hot shower stings, waking me up. I wash away the last stubborn traces of paint, but not the memory of Luca’s hands. That stays. Maybe forever.

I dress quickly—white shirt, pale gray trousers, and a tailored navy blazer. My royal pin glints against the fabric. The crest of Sweden. I pin it above my heart, even though it feels heavier than usual.

The sun is already bright when I reach the courtyard. Potted lemon trees line the perimeter, their citrus scent mixing with lavender.

Luca and Giovanni are already waiting.

Luca wears a white button-down rolled at the sleeves, tucked into khaki trousers. His dark curls are slightly damp. He looks good. Too good.

Giovanni stands beside him like a shadow—perfect posture, unreadable expression.

They’re not talking.

Luca’s hands are shoved into his pockets, and Giovanni’s arms are crossed. There’s at least a meter between them, but the space is full of tension.

“Morning,” I greet.

“Your Highness,” Giovanni answers, polite but cold.

Luca nods. Doesn’t smile. His eyes find mine for only a second before darting away.

I swallow. This is going to be a long day.

The outreach event is held at a community arts center on the edge of the city. It’s tucked into an old building, its terracotta walls weathered and full of character. The smell of turpentine and old paper greets us at the entrance.

We’re here to help the children with a mural—a symbol of unity between nations. It sounds grand in the briefing notes, but when we walk inside, it’s just kids with paint-streaked faces and sticky hands.

I end up crouched beside a little girl who speaks only Italian. She offers me a brush and points to the blank part of the wall.

“Dipingere,” she says.

I smile. “Okay.”

I dip the brush into blue and follow her lead. She laughs when I mess up the lines. I laugh with her.

Luca is across the room, helping a boy fix the shape of a dove. He looks relaxed. Natural. It hits me again how good he is with people, especially children.

Giovanni and Henrik hover at the edge of the room like statues, eyes on us the whole time. Neither of them paints.

The day doesn’t go as badly—or as awkwardly—as I thought it would, mostly because Luca and I spent our time in different corners, painting with the children. By the time we leave, my hands are covered in color, and my shirt is speckled with yellow and green.

And all I can think of is last night.

The children wave as we drive off.

Luca nudges my shoulder. “You have blue on your ear, principino.”

I turn to him. “So do you.”

He smiles, just for a moment, and then looks away again.

That’s about it for our interactions. It feels like he wants to talk to me, but somehow…can’t.

Later that evening, we go to the preview of the art gallery where Luca’s father will be exhibiting. The official event is in two days, but tonight is for internal guests—family, donors, diplomats.

The gallery is quiet—cool air and soft lights. The sound of footsteps echoes on the marble floors.

Luca walks beside me, but there’s still distance. Not physical. Something else.

Giovanni and Henrik trail a few steps behind us.

I pause in front of a canvas that stops me cold.

It’s a simple composition—shadows and light in bold brushstrokes, textured layers, but something about it feels…familiar.

“I’ve seen this before,” I murmur.

From behind, a deep voice answers. “It’s one of my favorites.”

I turn to see Luca’s father, dressed in a dark blue suit, hands clasped behind his back. The resemblance between the two men never ceases to amaze me.

“Tell me, Prince Kristian,” he says, “what do you feel when you look at this piece?”

I glance at the painting and say the first thing that comes to mind. “It makes me want to pause and breathe. Exist outside reality for a while.”

He gives me an impressed nod. “To me, that’s what good art should do for a person.”

Before I can reply, Luca joins us, brows raised. “I didn’t know you still had this one.”

His father chuckles. “You painted it when you were seventeen. I told you I was keeping it. You thought I was joking.”

Luca snorts. “You’re always joking, Papa.”

Something on the painting catches my attention. I step closer, eyes narrowing at the signature in the corner.
L.M.—the same initials I saw on the painting I bought weeks ago at the International Youth Environmental Forum.

The one I hung above my bed.

I look from the painting to Luca. From Luca back to the painting.

And suddenly, the pieces fall into place. The painting at the forum. The painting before me now.

He is misunderstood, Giovanni said when I asked about the painter. Wild, impulsive, but he has a heart of gold.
He has a way of turning chaos into beauty.

It feels like everything in the universe keeps pointing me to Luca Moretti.

And I’m not sure I want to resist it anymore.


Dipingere (Italian)- to paint

Principino (Italian)- Prince