The room was a contradiction to his presence, a bubble of pure femininity and warmth.
White lace curtains fluttered softly in the breeze, their delicate floral patterns casting faint shadows on walls painted in pastel hues.
Flower vases occupied every corner, overflowing with an array of blooms, and fairy lights in candy pink and baby blue framed the room, creating an almost magical glow.
The scent of cupcakes and candy permeated the air, almost sickeningly sweet. To him, it was cloying and too soft, yet undeniably her.
The space was cluttered but cozy, with undone dishes piled near a tiny sink and mismatched, whimsical cups scattered about.
Perfume bottles, sweet and fruity, were placed in seemingly random spots, further amplifying the sugary atmosphere.
He glanced around, noting the absence of a television, the size of the room, just one, modest and compact.
It spoke of limited means, but she had made it hers, a reflection of her identity.
His gaze returned to her. She stood near the door, her arms crossed, her petite frame vibrating with frustration.
Her hair, styled in pigtails, only added to her unintentional charm. He found himself smirking before muttering, "Adorable."
Her cheeks flushed, her irritation growing. "Are you done invading my privacy?" she snapped, her hazel eyes catching the fading sunset through the pink curtains, making her look almost ethereal.
The intensity of his gaze unnerved her, and she dropped her eyes quickly. "If you're done ogling me, please leave. I have school tomorrow," she said sharply, though her voice wavered slightly.
Ignoring her demand, he sauntered to the lone seat in the room and sank into it, crossing his legs leisurely. "So, you go to school?" he asked, his tone far too casual for her liking.
"Yes," she replied tersely, slipping off her sandals and replacing them with fuzzy pink booties. "I'm starting tomorrow."
His dark eyes gleamed with curiosity or was it amusement? "What's the name of the school?"
She huffed, her movements quick and agitated. "It's none of your business," she snapped again, then caught herself, a flicker of guilt crossing her face.
She wasn't used to this, this hostility. She prided herself on her kindness, but something about him brought out a sharper edge she didn't know she possessed.
He leaned back, watching her like a cat toying with a mouse. "Won't you offer your guest some tea, Sister Giulietta?" he asked, a sly grin playing on his lips.
Her shoulders stiffened. Forcing a smile that didn't reach her eyes, she said, "Of course."
She retreated to the small kitchen corner, her movements rigid, and began brewing tea. He couldn't help but chuckle quietly to himself as she meticulously arranged cookies on a dainty plate. Everything about her was painstakingly cute, from the tiny kettle she used to the delicate teacups she placed on the tray.
"Do you live here alone, Sister Giulietta?" he asked as she worked.
She nodded, not looking at him. "Ever since I left the orphanage. The church gifted me this place." Her voice softened slightly, and a hint of gratitude touched her words.
He tilted his head. So she didn't know. She wasn't aware her father was alive. How interesting. Why had Marcello kept that a secret?
"Do you love the church?" he asked, his tone probing.
Her face lit up with a radiant smile that made his chest tighten unexpectedly. "Yes! I love the Lord, I love the people, I love that Jesus died for me."
His own smile vanished. Jesus. The name clawed at something deep within him, something he'd buried long ago. "What's your type, Sister Giulietta?" he asked, changing the subject abruptly, though his voice betrayed none of his inner turmoil.
"Type?" She turned to him, genuinely confused. "Do you mean a type of flower or tea?"
He couldn't help but smirk at her innocence, though he quickly wiped it away. "Never mind," he murmured darkly, leaning back as she approached with the tray.
She placed it carefully on the stool before him, her hands steady despite the tension between them. "Here. I hope you like it..." she started, but her voice faltered as his hand shot out, wrapping gently but firmly around her wrist.
She froze, the air between them thick with unspoken tension. His eyes locked onto hers, then drifted down to her lips, pink, soft, and bare.
She smelled sweet, like sugar and warmth, and it was driving him mad.
"Tell me, Sister..." His voice was low, almost a growl. His gaze lingered on her trembling form, and he leaned in ever so slightly, his grip still holding her in place.
"...Have you ever sinned?"