I open the door and start down the stairs.
* * *
Dorian
The kitchen smells like late summer in Italy—sweet tomatoes simmering slowly, garlic just kissed by heat, fresh basil torn and scattered over the pot like something sacred. I plate the pasta carefully. The scent alone could make someone forgive a few sins. I hope.
I warm the plates in the oven, just like Flor always insists, and pour two generous glasses of red. Outside, the sun has sunk behind the treetops, leaving the sky a soft wash of mauve and charcoal. The fire pit on the deck flickers to life with a low crackle, its warmth drawing shadows across the wooden boards.
And then I hear her footsteps behind me.
When I turn, I pause.
Della stands in the soft lamplight, barefoot, her small frame nearly swallowed by the oversized sweater she’s chosen. Her damp hair falls looseover her shoulders, her face bare, free. It does something to me—roots me and unravels me all at once. She’s never looked more like herself. And I don’t think she knows that.
“You did make pasta,” she says, a note of amused disbelief in her voice.
I grin. “I told you. One recipe. Pasta Pomodoro. Perfected.”
She smiles—gentle, open. And I feel something shift again. Another lock unclicked, quietly.
I grab the plates, hand her one, then lift the glasses in my free hand.
“Come on. Let’s go outside. The view is amazing. You’ll love it.”
We step onto the deck. The fire’s glow casts gold across her cheeks, and the lake behind us is now a dark, glimmering mirror. Across the water, soft lights flicker from distant houses—faint, steady. Just enough to remind us we’re not entirely alone.
I set everything down on the low wooden table between the two chairs and pull a folded blanket from the bench. Without asking, I drape it gently over her shoulders.
She tenses for a half-second, then lets it settle. Doesn’t shake it off. That feels like something. She sits, drawing the blanket closer, and I take the seat beside her. The plates steam in the night air.
She twirls a forkful, takes a bite… and then freezes slightly, her eyes widening.
“Hmm, this is actually…” she looks at me, incredulous. “Delicious.”
I lift a brow, feigning offense. “You sound surprised.”
“Iamsurprised.” She grins, taking another bite. “You? The man who used to burn toast?”
“Survival instincts,”I mutter, lifting my glass.“Man can’t live on burnt toast alone.”
She laughs—low and real—and clinks her glass against mine.
For a while, we eat in companionable silence. The wind rustles the trees gently, and somewhere out on the lake, a boat cuts softly through the water. Above us, stars begin to thread through the sky.
She leans back in her chair, pulling her knees up under the blanket.
We sip our wine slowly, the fire crackling softly at our feet. She tilts her head toward the sky.
“I forgot how many stars you can see out here. In the city, they barely exist.” she says. “And this silence, this stillness…”
“There’s something good about quiet,” I reply, watching her instead of the stars. “It makes space for things you didn’t know were missing.”
She doesn’t answer—just sits there, wrapped in firelight and wool, eyes on the sky like it’s the only thing she trusts right now.
She finishes her wine, sets the glass down softly, and I do the same.
We linger there, longer than I expected. Like neither of us wants to break whatever this is. Like we both know it won’t last—but that doesn’t make it any less real.
