"You really like my mom, huh?" I mumble, nudging his arm with mine. He smirks. "She threatened Charlesandpromised me pies. PIES. What’s not to love?"
I let out a soft laugh, resting my chin on his shoulder. He wraps his arm around me, pulling me close again, resting his chin on top of my head. "Your mom actually makes pies for me this late at night?" he asks, his voice all soft and sleepy.
I snort. "I was scared she would actually make an entire Balkan bakery just for you not to be sad."
He laughs.
We stay like that, tangled in each other. There are still too many things we haven’t even said yet, but we will.
We will.
Because tonight feels like the beginning.
Bonus Scene!
(The bracelet-making process with Gio and Emiliana at the beach:)
Gio
We finished the totally-not-collapsing sandcastle.
My side is architectural perfection, Emiliana’s side looks like sand puke. Whatever.
We’re even after she humiliated me, reading my face like it’s a giant sign that just screams RAVA in neon. She’s rummaging in her beach backpack now, glancing at me every two minutes.
I’m lowkey terrified.
Emiliana will pullanythingout of that bag. Live crab, nuclear device, who knows. She finally yanks out a little pouch, pink with green stripes, and struts back over.
She gives people side-eye on her way, likemove, peasants, art emergency. Kid could be mine.
She plops down next to me in the sand and unzips the pouch without a single word. Dramatic silence. Inside there are beads. Strings. So now I’m in a hostage situation with arts and crafts.
"Hold this," she orders, shoving a stretchy cord into my hand. No please, no thank-you. Just CEO energy.
I squint. "What is it?"
"Bracelet," she says, already threading beads. "We’re making two."
"Why two?"
"One for you, one forhim."
I stare her down. "Him means Rava?" She nods, dead serious. I laugh and peek inside her pouch. It’s like the rainbow threw up in there. Zero chance Rava’s palette matches that mess.
"Sorry, princess, but I don’t think he’s rocking that."
She shoots me the most judgmental six-year-old glare known to mankind.
"The boy you like is now wearing an ugly red paper crown my brother made. And he looks happy."
Touché.
She arches one eyebrow and scoots closer. "If he likes you, he’llnevertake it off, even if it’s ugly. Which it won’t be, because I have the best beads in the whole school."
I snort. "Where’d you learn all that?"
Seriously, this kid’s lived eight lives already. "There’s this boy in my class," she shrugs. "He likes me. Anything I give him, he keeps. Even a plain eraser."
