“Yes,” he says. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you like it here.”
“I do like it here. I’m wearing borrowed sweats and being taught how to stir pasta sauce by a man who I’ve been told once stabbed someone with a meat fork.”
“Accident,” Lars calls out from the sink.
“Violette said you were aiming for his throat.”
“Still an accident.”
Violette raises her glass again. “In this family, this isdomestic bliss.”
Enzo dips his head, brushing his lips along the curve of my neck, and for a second, the chaos fades.
“You belong, Angel,” he says, quiet but sure. “Whether you believe it yet or not.”
I swallow past the lump in my throat and nod, stealing a breadstick just to distract myself.
“I believe it,” I whisper.
Not long ago,my nights ended in silence and take out. Now, I’m plating pasta alongside Lars while my husband watches. It’s not lost on me how fast things have changed.
Lars hands me the serving spoon with exaggerated flourish. “To our resident sous-chef.”
I give him a theatrical curtsy. “All I’m missing is a ridiculous hat.”
Violette lifts her martini glass like she’s toasting royalty. “So long as you’re not wearing one of those god-awful aprons with dick jokes, I approve.”
Enzo watches it all with that rare glint in his eye—amusement mixed with something softer, something only I seem to get from him these days. I can feel the weight of his gaze as I serve Violette first, Lars second, then finally pass the bowl to Enzo.
“You keep cooking like this and Lars is going to get jealous,” he says, lips quirking.
“I’m not worried,” Lars mutters, grabbing the salad tongs. “There’s one ingredient I didn’t divulge. Keeping that part a secret.”
“Love this journey for us,” I deadpan, placing garlic bread onto his plate.
We eat the way people do when they’ve earned it—not just from surviving the week, but from the strange, unexpectedrhythm we’ve found together. It shouldn’t work, the four of us around a table, yet somehow the edges fit.
Violette lifts her martini, eyes glinting. “To Sunday sauce, orgasms, and women talented enough to deliver both without breaking a sweat.”
Lars nearly chokes on his whiskey. I’m doubled over laughing before I can even pretend to be shocked. Enzo, naturally, just raises his glass back, smug bastard.
The meal carries on with that perfect balance of bite and ease—teasing, affection, silences feel natural. For once, there’s no strategy hanging over us. Just sauce, bread, and the kind of comfort I want more of.
Eventually, Violette tips her glass toward Lars. “Not terrible. The sauce wasn’t complete garbage. You’ve earned another week of usefulness.”
“Heartwarming,” Lars deadpans. “You should take up freelance writing for greeting cards.”
I glance at Enzo, who’s methodically buttering a piece of bread with all the gravity of a man plotting a murder. “Why are you glaring at your bread?”
His gaze flicks up, completely straight-faced. “Because I’m bracing myself for when Violette starts assigning godparents to our yet to be conceived child, and Lars tries to lace the dessert with poison.”
The corner of my mouth lifts, warmth blooming in my chest despite his tone. “Very practical of you.”
His shoulders roll back in a careless shrug. “I always plan ahead, Angel.”
Enzo’s fingersmove across my back, sketching lazy, unspoken things into my skin. I’m warm, wrapped in sheets that still carry the heat of last night, but it’s his touch that keeps me tethered here—in the quiet, in the safety of him.
“You’re awake,” I say quietly, voice rough with sleep, cheek pressed to his chest.
