In spite of all the excitement of that day, Jacopo was asleep by ten. He'd settled onto the sofa with a steaming mug of decaffeinated coffee and a riveting book about soil fertilisers, not expecting to be able to sleep for hours, but was snoring within fifteen minutes. The next thing he knew, he was being gently shaken awake.
The first thing he saw was the open book on his lap, lax on his grip. In the background, the mug of coffee, no longer steaming, lay still and silent on the coffee table which, apart from a few packets of seeds, was otherwise empty. He'd fallen asleep upright in the seat closest to the door with one arm resting on the armrest, and it was this arm which was being shaken. Somehow, Jacopo managed not to give in to his customary reaction of cursing and instead turned to glare, a little bleary-eyed, round at the inconsiderate, rude, idiotic...
Oh.
Jacopo was wide awake in a second, as if Birch's touch had sent an electric charge through his body. Her sharp green eyes, the colour of frosted grass, were more alive than they had any right to be after he'd found her unconscious three hours ago on his doorstep. Those eyes, which had caught his attention before with their dancing humour, were now filled with a raw emotion which was too alien for him to recognise. He was already half-out of his seat and grumbling at her in Italian for getting out of bed too fast when her words, and that expression, hit him fully. Jacopo froze like a deer in headlights.
This wasn't right. She was ill, hurt, probably confused – it didn't take a genius to work out that she'd just been through some hellish experience. She'd probably turn to anyone who offered her a shred of comfort in her hour of need.
'Didn't you see the way she looked at you before? She wasn't ill then.' The quiet little voice of confidence spoke in the back of his mind. It had been so long since he'd heard it, he'd forgotten what it sounded like.
The concept of being needed or wanted was so foreign that Jacopo rejected it instantly. He was so out of practice that he was probably misreading the signs. She was probably just being kind or thoughtful, and he was reading too much into it.
'Kindness is characterised by offering, not wanting.'
Well, it would be wrong to take advantage of her in this state anyway.
'You wouldn't care about that if you didn't like her.'
Time was passing too quickly. Had he ruined it already, by muttering in Italian and then waiting for... seconds? Minutes? Days?
He cleared his throat. It sounded really loud in the small room, which somehow felt a lot warmer than it had when he'd fallen asleep.
“You shouldn't be up,” he grunted gruffly, playing it safe in case he'd read the signs wrong. “You... okay?”
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