Reach down and touch her hair gently.

You reach down and sink your fingers into her hair. The dark curls are still damp from her shower, soft and cool against your palm. Rosaria goes very still under your touch, then lets out a breath that sounds almost like a sob.

"I don't know," you answer quietly. Your thumb strokes along her temple. "I don't know what we're doing. But we're doing it together."

She leans into your hand, just slightly. Her eyes close. "It's been less than four hours, Matteo. Four hours and I'm on my knees in a restaurant and I—" She stops, opens her eyes, looks up at you. "And I feel better like this. What does that mean?"

"It means you're adapting," you say. "We both are."

"Is that what we're calling it?" But there's no real bite in her voice. She turns her head, pressing her cheek against your palm for just a moment, then pulls away gently. "You should sit upright again. People are staring."

You hadn't noticed, but she's right - the silver-haired man at the next table is watching with open interest, his own companion still eating from her bowl on the floor. You straighten just as the waiter returns, carrying a thick cushion covered in deep burgundy velvet.

"For your companion, sir." He sets it down beside Rosaria with practiced efficiency. She shifts to kneel on it and her whole posture eases further. The cushion is clearly designed for this - firm enough for support, soft enough for comfort. "May I take your orders?"

You scan the menu quickly. Your brain latches onto familiar words. "The risotto ai frutti di mare for me. And for her—" You look at Rosaria. "What do you want?"

"The pasta pomodoro," she says quietly.

The waiter nods and reaches down to adjust something at the base of Rosaria's collar. She flinches slightly. He holds up a small attachment - a rigid straw clipped to a thin metal arm. "This will make drinking possible, even if your owner decides to tie your arms, miss. It attaches here and swivels to your mouth."

He demonstrates, clicking the device onto her collar's D-ring and positioning the straw near her lips. Rosaria looks at you, her expression caught between mortification and exhausted acceptance.

"Thank you," she says to the waiter. Her voice is steady. "Probably not necessary, but thank you."

He nods and departs.