His office smelled like paper and good decisions. Two “Buonasera, Dottore” handshakes in the hall; he absorbed them like weather and shut the door.
“Please, sit.” Pen aligned to notebook like a scalpel. “Your notes are strong. You spotted countertransference in Group B and a documentation drift in intake. For your stage, that’s unusual.” Small, surgical smile.
“Grazie,” I said, trying not to wag my metaphorical tail.
“We’ll structure next week: observer in intake interviewing; informed consent lab; outcomes audit with Benedetti.” He tipped his head. “And I want you to track your own affect regulation—note where you speed up or shut down while observing.”
“Because I have a personality,” I said.
“Because you have an attachment history,” he corrected, dry, not unkind. “We all do.”
The praise warmed me in places my brain doesn’t supervise. My mouth sprinted ahead. “About Rome—I was messy. I handled it badly.”
“If apologies are due, they’re mine,” he said. “I allowed countertransference to pull me; I minimized the power differential; I confused my curiosity for your well-being. Professionally, that’s poor boundary management.”
Steam out; lungs in. “So we’re… okay?”
“We are clear.” He poured water, slid the glass without touching me. “Clarity is part of ethical practice.”
He steepled his fingers. “How is it really going—not the performative report.”
“I’m the youngest. People talk around me. Lunch happens solo.”
“That’s role strain and partial social exclusion. Predictable, unpleasant.”
“In Genoa I’m Papa’s kid behind a gate. Here I’m the teenager who got lost in a lab coat.”
“You’re nineteen,” he said. “Developmentally in late adolescence, negotiating autonomy and identity. Many will still treat you per the old schema.”
“Matteo does,” I muttered. “When I said I’d met someone, he offered ‘friends’ like a consolation prize.”
He nodded once. “He relates to the past representation of you. That’s a schema lock on his side. It still hurts on yours.”
“Molto.”
“Notice your approach–avoidance conflict,” he added. “You want proximity and space, simultaneously. That oscillation is not pathology; it’s data.”
Heat rose in my neck. Annoyingly seen. Also… wanted. (My body: “Competence is hot.” My brain: “Shut up.”)
“It’s good to be wanted,” he said. Not a question. “È umano.”
“I ran away from you in Rome. I acted like a scared little girl.”
“You set a boundary,” he said, voice all velvet and syllabus. “That’s not childish, Isabella. That’s self-respect.”
I studied him. “You’re not angry?”
“Why would I be?” He met my eyes—cool, exact. “You were honest about what you wanted. Or didn’t. I’m the one who should have been more careful—more aware of the power differential between us.”
The apology felt real. Sincere. Like he was handing me back something I’d dropped in Rome.
His hand settled on mine—light, not pinning, the way a doctor touches a pulse. My heart went full drumline, and I didn’t pull away. Maybe I’d been wrong to reject him. Maybe I deserved this attention. This warmth. (Also, yes, he noticed my face first; men always do. He just pretends to file it under “data.” Snob.)
He leaned in and kissed me—careful, testing. I kissed him back.
He moved with precision, like everything had a protocol: ask, wait, advance. “Sei bellissima,” he murmured—beautiful—“I’ve thought about this since Rome. I’m glad you’re here.”
“Have you ever been with anyone before?” he asked, almost tender.
Heat rushed to my cheeks. “No. I’ve been… sheltered. This would be my first time.”
His expression gentled. “Then we go slowly. I’m honored you’d trust me. It will mean something.”
I let the warmth happen. I wanted—finally—to stop being the girl outside the glass.
When he guided me toward a door I hadn’t registered—a bedroom tucked off the office—I followed. Papa’s warnings echoed (focus on studies, no distractions), but Luca’s quiet insistence were louder. This was what I wanted, wasn’t it? To be seen as an adult. To be chosen.
As I lay in Ferraro's bed, the world outside faded away, leaving just the two of us.
The dim light painted soft shadows across his face as he leaned closer. His lips found mine again, a slow dance of affection that ignited a fire in my chest.
His hands roamed, exploring my body as if memorizing every curve. I felt alive under his touch, each stroke sending shivers through me.
He paused, looking into my eyes, gauging my readiness before he slid down the bed. I held my breath, anticipation coursing through me.
As he kissed along my thighs, his mouth found me—a soft gasp escaped my lips. He took his time, teasing and tasting, driving me wild with longing. I was lost in a haze of sensation, my body responding instinctively to his every move.
I felt exposed yet safe, my trust in him deepening with each kiss. The tension built within me, coiling tighter until I couldn't hold back. I cried out, waves of bliss crashing over me, leaving me breathless and spent.
He surfaced, looking up at me with an expression of awe and desire. My heart raced as he returned to my side. It was time for the next step, and I felt a mix of excitement and nervousness.
“I'll be gentle,” his voice low and soothing. I nodded, feeling the weight of his good-shape body. He positioned himself between my legs, his eyes locked on mine.
With a slow, careful movement, he entered me. I felt a sharp pang—an unfamiliar stretch—but it quickly transformed into a wave of pleasure.
We moved together, our bodies finding a rhythm, each thrust igniting sparks between us. I felt cherished, every ounce of my being focused on this connection. The world outside ceased to exist; it was just us, entwined in this intimate dance of passion.
When it was over, he pulled me close, whispering sweet reassurances. I lay there, feeling changed, a sensation of completeness enveloping me as I drifted into a peaceful sleep, knowing I had crossed into a new chapter of my life.
Morning light sliced through unfamiliar curtains. He was already awake, watching me like a question.
“Buongiorno,” he said.
I tugged the sheet up, reality washing over me cold and clear. “I don’t know how I feel,” I admitted.
“No regrets, I hope.” His fingers brushed my temple—weightless.
Did I regret it? I couldn’t tell. Everything felt too big, like I’d tried on someone else’s life and it almost fit.
“You should go back to your room before rounds,” he said in that measured director tone. “Dobbiamo essere discreti—we need to be discreet.”
Discreet. The word tasted cheap in my mouth.
I dressed fast, not looking at him. He kissed my forehead at the door, formal as a seal. “This stays between us, Isabella. For both our protection.”
Empty corridors. My key shaking in the lock. My room felt foreign, like it belonged to a previous version of me.
I sat on the bed and stared at nothing. Irrevocably changed. Can’t go back. Nineteen, and the ground under me moved.