Chapter 92 Peaceful Silence
Isabella POV
“Fine.”
The word left my lips quietly, but it felt heavier than it should have. I lowered my coffee mug to the counter because my hand had begun trembling uncontrollably. The ceramic struck the marble with a sharp clink that echoed louder than it needed to in the still apartment. I folded my arms tightly across my chest, as if holding myself together.
“You don’t have to be scared of me,” Dante murmured, his voice low. “I swear, I’ll love it.”
“That’s not what I’m afraid of…”
My voice came out softer than I intended.
I wasn’t afraid of his reaction to the painting itself. I wasn’t afraid he’d criticize it or laugh. I was terrified of something far worse.
I had captured him from memory alone and not just his body but something deeper. Something intangible, I had painted the night we met, the way it lived in my mind with unbearable clarity. Even if Dante was oblivious enough not to fully interpret what the painting revealed, he wasn’t foolish enough to miss the obvious truth that I had chosen him.
Out of everything in my life, out of every subject I could have painted, I painted him.
That meant something and I didn’t want him to know how much. I never told him to leave do, of course, he stayed.
At some point, he slipped out without explanation. I hadn’t asked where he was going, and he hadn’t offered. When he returned, grocery bags were in his hands as if he’d always belonged in that role.
He moved through my small kitchen like it was second nature, setting things on the counter, unpacking ingredients, starting dinner without a single word from me. I had never asked him to do anything so domestic. He simply decided to.
The sound of oil sizzling in a pan filled the space. The scent of seasoned meat drifted toward the living room. He had showered earlier, but afterward he’d chosen to remain in nothing but his boxers. The cold that crept through my apartment in winter didn’t seem to touch him. Frost clung to the windows, and even with the heater working overtime, the chill lingered but he stood unaffected. As if temperature simply didn’t apply to him.
I sat by the window with my canvas, trying to catch the last threads of daylight before evening swallowed them whole. I wore his t-shirt under my sweater, wrapped in layers, jeans tucked around my legs in an attempt to hold warmth inside my bones.
We hadn’t spoken in hours and yet we existed together peacefully.
At some point, he walked into the living room carrying bundles of firewood from the grocery bags. Without asking, he knelt by the fireplace and arranged the logs with deliberate precision. A match flared between his fingers, and within minutes, flames leapt upward, steady and strong, he crouched there for a moment, adjusting the wood until the fire roared properly, then brushed his hands off and returned to the kitchen. I was grateful he couldn’t see my face.
My fingers trembled around the paintbrush again, though this time it wasn’t fear of the painting. It was something else entirely.
Only two people who were truly comfortable with each other could sit in silence like this and not feel compelled to fill it with pointless conversation. The stillness between us wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t strained.
It was natural and It reminded me of my parents because I used to watch them sit together on the terrace at dinner. Sometimes they barely exchanged a word not because there was nothing to say, but because they didn’t need to say anything and that’s what this felt like.
Dante moving through my apartment, buying groceries, cooking dinner, building a fire because I was cold. A man and a woman sharing space like it was the most ordinary thing in the world.
What the hell was happening?
I dropped my brush into the glass of water and stared at the painting without seeing it. The fire warmed my left side while the sounds of his moving in the kitchen grounded the rest of me.
He had a luxury apartment ten minutes away three times the size of this place he had a mansion buried in snow somewhere far more impressive than this cramped studio but he chose to be here with me.
Even when we weren’t tangled up in each other, this was dangerous.
He carried the food to the coffee table, the only surface suitable for eating in my apartment. I’d never bothered with a dining table there wasn’t room for one unless I sacrificed one of my couches and I never used a proper table when I ate alone anyway.
He must have sensed the shift in my mood because he paused and looked at me. “What’s wrong, baby?”
He said it so often I almost forgot what my actual name sounded like when he spoke it.
“Nothing” I forced out, turning away from my easel and rising from the stool but he gave me a look that made it clear he didn’t believe me for a second. “This smells good,” I said instead, lowering myself to the floor in front of the plate he’d set out. I kept my gaze fixed on the food, avoiding his eyes. If he looked too closely, he’d see everything written across my face.
Thankfully, he didn’t push it. He returned to the kitchen briefly, then came back with the last of the dishes and sat across from me.
We ate in silence, just like my parents.
Why did this feel so natural? How had we slipped into this rhythm without noticing? How did we get here?
He poured himself scotch and I stuck to wine.
When he ate, he did so with impeccable manners cutting his food carefully, posture straight, movements refined. It was almost comical considering how ruthless and unrestrained he could be in every other aspect of his life but at the table, he was disciplined.
“This is really good,” I admitted after a few bites. It wasn’t gourmet, but it was far better than anything I could make. “Thank you for cooking.”
I tried to break the silence and tried to shatter the comfort before it rooted too deeply.
His blue eyes lifted to mine, sharp and assessing. There was a subtle edge to him now, something guarded. He chewed slowly, shoulders broad and commanding even while seated on my floor.
He didn’t respond and the quiet stretched. I grabbed my wine and took a longer sip than necessary. “What is it?” he asked again.
“What do you mean?” I deflected. He didn’t blink. “You’re too intelligent to pretend you don’t know what I’m asking don’t play games with me.”
His tone wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. I didn’t want to tell him the real reason not before he saw that painting so I chose something safer.