Why do I suddenly feel like a teenager with her first crush, with no idea how to act normal?
Stepping off the shaded path,the noise hits me first—bright laughter and overlapping conversations. There are only about twenty wedding guests on the island so far, scattered around the open-air pavilion at circular tables overlooking the turquoise ocean.
Aria spots us the moment we step closer. She looks beautiful in a flowy white sundress, her blonde hair loose and beachy. Shebarrels toward me with open arms, pulling me into a tight hug that smells of strawberries and pure excitement.
“You look glowy,” she says, pulling back with a grin. “Is that from the sun, or from—” She cuts herself off with a dramatic eyebrow wiggle, her gaze darting pointedly toward Milo behind me.
My cheeks warm as I tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear. “It’s from the sun, obviously. Nothing else.”
Aria laughs, turning to Milo. “And look at that—she hasn’t murdered you yet. Honestly, given her track record, that’s surprising. So… you two ready for the chaos to begin?”
Milo’s mouth curves into a half-smile. “Define ready.”
She grins wider. “Perfect answer.”
I open my mouth to ask Aria what kind of chaos she’s planned for the wedding-week activities when my mom’s voice cuts through the chatter.
“Sienna! Milo!” she waves enthusiastically from one of the tables. “Over here, you two!”
Aria mutters something about last-minute details, then slips away with a quick wave, leaving Milo and me standing there. I draw in a deep breath, then start toward my parents. Milo follows close behind—so close I can feel the warmth radiating from his body with each step.
The moment we reach the table, Mom stands and pulls me into a hug. “There’s my girl,” she murmurs into my hair. “You look rested. Did you sleep okay, honey?”
“Mostly,” I answer, nodding. I don’t mention that I’d spent half the night staring at the ceiling, replaying the slow brush of Milo’s thumb across my knuckles and the way my heart had stumbled over itself.
She pulls back just enough to study my face, gently chewing her lower lip. “You’re not still mad about last night’s conversation, are you?” Her voice is soft, almost apologetic. “Youknow we only said those things because we love you. We just… want the best for you.”
The familiar ache blooms behind my ribs. I know they mean well. Every worried glance, every gentle push toward “settling down,” every quiet sigh when I mention another trip or another city—all of it comes from love. They’ve watched me bounce across continents like a pinball for years, never quite landing anywhere, and it terrifies them.
They still see the little girl who used to cry when she couldn’t find her favorite stuffed bear. They just want to make sure someone else will always know where to look for her.
But God, it’s exhausting.
I’ve built a life that’s loud, bright, and entirely mine, yet every time they look at me with those concerned eyes, I feel like I’m failing an invisible test I never agreed to take.
They might never fully understand why I need to keep moving, why the idea of “settled” feels like a cage closing in. But they love me anyway. And that’s what always stops me from bolting when these conversations circle back.
I force a small smile and shake my head. “I’m not mad, Mom. I promise.”
Her shoulders relax instantly. She cups my cheeks with both hands, her thumb brushing my skin gently before pressing a kiss there. “Good. As long as you’re happy—that’s all we want, honey.”
Dad steps in smoothly, steering the conversation to safer ground, and I’m silently grateful. He claps Milo on the shoulder with a friendly grin. “Morning, son. Too early for a scotch, or I would’ve poured you one myself. But the coffee is fresh and stupidly strong. I’ve got a feeling we’re all going to need it for whatever Aria and Ethan have planned.”
Milo nods, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Morning, Gregory. Appreciate it.”
Mom’s eyes sparkle as she glances between us. “Come sit. I’ll pour the coffee.”
Milo reaches past me and pulls out my chair with that effortless courtesy that makes my pulse stumble. His fingers brush the small of my back as I sit. The contact is brief, yet it leaves a trail of warmth across my skin.
“Thanks,” I whisper.
He settles beside me, close enough that I catch a faint whiff of his cedarwood cologne. I immediately reach for the cup of coffee Mom poured and take a long gulp, cursing myself as I burn my tongue.
“You’re such a gentleman, Milo,” Mom comments, grinning so wide her eyes crinkle.
I groan loud enough to draw a few glances from nearby tables. Milo lets out a quiet, rumbling chuckle. The sound vibrates through his chest, and I feel it more than I hear it, goosebumps rippling across my arms.
The pavilion gradually fills with easy chatter as more guests drift over. I try to follow the conversations, but my focus keeps drifting to the man beside me. My knee starts bouncing under the table—its usual restless rhythm. Before I can stop it, Milo’s hand settles lightly on my thigh, fingers curling as his thumb traces soothing circles over the jittery muscle.
