My throat tightens. “That you’re unbelievable.”
He winks. “I try.”
By the time we sit down, the sky outside has gone deep blue. Candles flicker over glasses of chianti and plates piled with roasted vegetables and turkey glazed in balsamic and honey. The food is half American, half Italian, all heart.
Across the table, Troy’s watching me with that look — the one that says he’s not just proud of this day; he’s proud of me.
Once the laughter quiets and everyone’s plates are half-empty, my mom raises her glass. “To unexpected blessings,” she says. Then she lifts her glass to Troy’s family. “And the people who remind us that home isn’t always a place.”
Everyone clinks glasses. Troy’s gaze doesn’t leave mine. “To home,” he says softly.
My heart squeezes and I know I need to tell him what I feel.
It’s not too soon.
After the last dish is washed, I find Troy outside on the terrace. The air’s cool, the sky velvet-black. The vines below glimmer with dew under strings of soft light. He’s sitting on the stone wall, sleeves rolled up, a half-empty glass of wine dangling from his hand. He looks up when I step out, a slow smile curving his mouth.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “Come here.”
“You worked so hard,” I say solemnly. “Our families, my friends, the food. You made today perfect.”
He tilts his head. “You think it was perfect?”
“I think it was exactly what I didn’t know I needed.”
His expression softens. “Then I did my job as the man in your life.”
“Troy,” I start, then falter. “I don’t even know how to start?—”
“Just tell me you’re happy.”
The bonds of fear holding me back slip away. “I am.”
“Good.”
We sit in silence for a while, just absorbing the reminisce of happiness that lingers after a day as full as this one was. Then I say what’s been lingering in my heart all day. “You know, when I woke up this morning and heard them laughing, I realized something.”
“What’s that,uvetta mia?”
“Time is irrelevant when it comes to love. You can spend years with the wrong person and never feel a thing. And a few months with the right one changes everything.”
He doesn’t speak, just waits for me—patient, listening.
“I love you,” I admit, voice low but steady. “Faster than maybe it should be. And it scares me, because I don’t want this to burn out. I want it to last. To be real.”
“Your love for me is as real as mine is for you, Maya,” he growls softly.
“You love me?”
“Yes.”
I press a hand against my stomach. “Wow.”
“Good wow or…”
“Incredible. But…”
“Love can still mean taking slow steps,uvetta mia.”
