"Out where?"
"You'll see."He says with a wink that makes my stomach flutter in ways I'm definitely not supposed to feel.
Later that night,the villa fills with the sounds and scents of celebration.Spanish music flows from hidden speakers while Javier works his magic in the kitchen, his hands moving with the confidence of decades spent perfecting his craft.
"The secret," he says, not looking up from the paella pan as he stirs saffron-scented rice, "is knowing when to stop stirring.You have to trust the process."
Nate and I finish setting the table—a task that requires more coordination than it should, our hands brushing as we arrange plates and glasses, each accidental touch sending sparks up my arms.
I catch him watching me as I fold napkins, his gaze soft and intense, and when our eyes meet, he doesn't look away immediately like he used to.
He only does when the front door opens and she walks in.
Luiza.
Even prepared for her existence, I'm not prepared for her presence.She's the kind of beautiful that seems effortless—dark hair catching the light, skin that speaks of Mediterranean summers, and a smile that transforms her entire face.
But more than that, there's something genuine about her warmth, a quality that makes me understand immediately why people gravitate toward her.
She embraces Javier first, and I recognize the gesture instantly—the way a daughter hugs a father, the way I used to fold myself into my dad's arms when the world felt too large and uncertain.There's history in that hug, belonging that speaks of chosen family and earned love.
"Hola, papá," she says, her voice warm with affection."Huele delicioso."
Then she turns to Nate, and I watch her hands frame his face before she kisses both his cheeks.
"Te eché de menos," she says softly.
Her Spanish flows like music, and Nate's answering smile is soft in a way that makes my stomach clench with something I refuse to acknowledge as jealousy.
Before I can retreat into observation, she's moving toward me with that same open warmth.Her hug is immediate and encompassing, as if we're old friends reuniting.
"Ah, you must be Nora," she says, her English accented but precise."I've heard so much about you from this one."
She gestures toward Nate, who has the grace to look embarrassed, his hand moving automatically to rub the back of his neck.
"All good things, I hope," I manage, trying to match her easy warmth.
"The best things," she assures me.
Dinner unfolds like a theater performance where I'm the only one without a script.Luiza and Javier slip effortlessly between Spanish and English, sharing inside jokes and memories that span years.
She tells stories about Nate’s early days here—how he burned the first meal he tried to cook, how he got hopelessly lost trying to find the market and ended up three towns over.They laugh with the easy intimacy of family, and Nate’s responses show a comfort that speaks of deep affection for these people.
As the night goes on, I’m smiling at the right moments and asking polite questions.But underneath, I feel like I’m watching through glass—present but separate, included but not integral.
“We should go,” Nate says, looking over at me, and I catch the faint flush across his cheekbones.“Don’t want to be late.”
He reaches for my hand with the kind of casualness that speaks of habit—like he’s done it a thousand times before.His fingers slide between mine, warm and sure, and the sensation sends a confusing rush through me.
Because Luiza is right there.
And she doesn’t flinch.
She doesn’t look surprised or hurt or jealous, she just smiles.
“Have fun, you two,” Luiza calls out, her voice warm as she wipes her hands on a dish towel.She tosses it over her shoulder with a practiced flick, then aims a playful wink—right at Nate.
She and Nate… I mean—everything about tonight suggested they’re close.
