Ask Rosaria if she prefers to kneel on the floor.

The words are out before you fully think them through. Rosaria's eyes snap to yours, wide and startled.

"What?"

"I just mean—" You gesture at the couple beside you, where the blonde woman is still eating delicately from her bowl. "It would take the tension off your neck. You said the leash pulls when you move."

Rosaria follows your gesture, staring at the kneeling woman for a long moment. Her throat works.

"You want me to kneel," she says flatly. "On the floor. In a restaurant."

"I'm asking if you'd prefer it," you correct, keeping your voice low. "For comfort."

She looks down at the iron ring. At the leather leash. At the polished wooden floor beside your table. The waiter is hovering a few feet away, giving you space but clearly waiting for your order. Another couple is being seated across the restaurant - a tall man with greying temples leading a dark-haired woman in an elaborate leather bodysuit, her arms encased in a single sleeve behind her back.

"Everyone does it," Rosaria murmurs. She's not looking at you anymore. "That woman. The one we passed in the hallway with the - the latex. They all just... do it."

"Yes."

"And you think I should."

"I think," you say carefully, "that you're uncomfortable. I'm trying to help."

She laughs - that brittle sound again. "Right." But she's already reaching down, her fingers fumbling with the clasp on her dress shoes. She kicks them off, one after the other, and slides from the chair to her knees beside the table in one fluid movement.

The change is immediate. The leash, which had been taut when she sat upright, now pools in loose coils on the floor. Rosaria's shoulders drop, the tension leaving her spine. She looks up at you from her new position and something flickers across her face - relief, yes, but also something else. Something raw and uncertain.

"Better?" you ask.

She nods slowly. "Yes. Strangely. I mean... apart from the belt—" She stops, glances at the waiter, lowers her voice to barely a whisper. "I feel it a bit more intense like this. The angle."

The waiter clears his throat politely. "Shall I bring a dining cushion for your companion, sir? And a bowl, or would she prefer a plate?"

Rosaria closes her eyes. Her cheeks are burning.

"A cushion," you say, your voice steadier than you feel. "And... a plate. She'll use a plate."

The waiter nods and disappears. Rosaria opens her eyes and stares at the tablecloth, her hands clasped in her lap. The collar gleams at her throat. The leash trails from it to the floor ring, slack now, almost decorative.

"Matteo," she whispers. "What are we doing?"