Текст книги "Love me stalk me"

Автор книги: Laura Bishop

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NOW CHATTING WITH CALEB

Pretty Girl

i have to confess something

Caleb

Oh?

You mean aside from the fact that you left me high and dry last night?

what?

You passed out on me.

Right at the best part.

Do you know how hard I was for you?

oh my god

i am SO sorry

There you go again.

Always apologizing.

??

omg will everyone STOP with that today

I’m just saying.

You have a bad habit of saying sorry when you don’t need to.

yeah well maybe i do need to apologize for passing out on you

that was rude of me lol

It was cruel.

I was left aching for you.

omg

i did NOT mean to do that

Hmm.

Still, I think you owe me.

do i?

Yes.

I'm thinking another photo. But, I'll collect later. First—what was your confession?

oh

um

You’re hesitating.

Now I really want to know.

i kissed someone today

…

How could you cheat on me like that?

omg STOP

i knew you were going to say something like that

I’m hurt.

Who was it?

…

cal

Who?

the guy from work. the one that saved me. i feel like i told you about this.

The one who is unreasonably broad shouldered with tattoo sleeves you want to lick?

...

yes.

Hell yeah!

it wasn’t planned!!

Mmm.

And?

and what??

How did it feel?

Did you like it?

why are you making me talk about this omg

Because I’m your boyfriend, obviously.

STOP

No.

Did you like it?

…

yes

Good girl.

why does that make me feel things

Because you like when I tell you you’re good.

shut up

Okay, so you liked kissing him.

Now let’s talk about what you’re going to do about Evan.

ugh

not this again

Yes, this again.

You’re unhappy.

You kissed another man.

Do I really need to spell it out?

i know i need to end things

i just

idk

You do know.

You’re just scared to actually do it.

you’re annoying

And yet, here you are.

Texting me instead of him.

okay rude

Tell me what happened.

with what?

With Cal.

oh

well

i kind of panicked and ran

You what?

yeahhhh

i kissed him

it got intense

and then i remembered i still technically have a bf and i bolted

literally ran out of his apartment

…

You ran away from a man you actually want.

To stay with one who doesn’t even like you.

i KNOW

anyway after i ran away i stress cleaned my entire apartment

and now i’m like a bottle of wine deep because i didn’t know what else to do

Uh oh.

Drunk Izzy returns.

omg don’t say it like that

You’re drinking and texting me again.

We both know where this leads.

not necessarily

No?

Then tell me.

What do you want to talk about? Anything, you pick the subject.

hmm

Is this a trick question?

There are no wrong answers.

fantasies

Interesting.

Tell me more.

like

i don’t know

I was out with my friend the other night, and she uses these chats to explore some of her more out-there fantasies.

Say more.

I dunno, I guess maybe I haven't ever really done that.

UGH! Why are you making me nervous

Relax. No one is judging you here. I love the idea of talking about fantasies with you.

don’t you ever think about fantasies?

Oh, all the time.

But I think what you’re really asking is if I think about yours.

…

maybe

Then let’s find out.

Tell me.

What do you fantasize about?

um

idk where to start

Start anywhere.

What’s something that’s been in your head before?

okay well

sometimes i think about like

being somewhere i shouldn’t be

Hmm.

Like where?

i don’t know

like a dressing room maybe

or somewhere public where i could get caught

A little exhibitionist streak in you, huh?

omg stop

I’m just making an observation.

You like the risk.

…maybe

Go on.

okay so that’s one thing

but i guess i also

i don’t know i should probably just stop now lol

No.

Tell me.

No judgment here.

i mean

it’s nothing crazy

Mmm.

Somehow, I don’t believe that.

ugh

okay

i think about being tied up sometimes

Go on.

restrained

completely at someone else’s mercy

Now we’re getting somewhere.

And?

idk

i like the idea of someone taking control

of not having a choice

No choice?

well not like that

not actually

but the idea of it

of being chased

caught

pinned down

taken

fuck i can’t believe i just said that

Why not?

because it sounds insane

It doesn’t.

It sounds like you want a man who knows how to take control.

yeah but

doesn’t that make me like

messed up?

Not even a little.

It just means you don’t want to be in charge for once.

but i should

i mean evan always said

Evan is a fucking idiot.

…

he made me feel bad for wanting these things

like something was wrong with me

Nothing is wrong with you.

These aren’t bad things to want.

They’re natural.

i just don’t know what to do with them

because i do want to explore them

but no one i’ve been with ever has

Then you haven’t been with the right men.

…

You want someone to chase you, catch you, make you surrender.

You want to be tied up and teased until you’re shaking.

You want to be claimed, taken, owned.

fuck

i shouldn’t be talking about this

But you are.

And I think you want to keep going.

…maybe

Tell me more.

you really want me to keep going?

Yes.

I want you to tell me a full fantasy.

Start to finish.

Every filthy detail.

fuck

okay um

so i guess i picture something like

me being hunted

Hunted?

yeah

like i’m running through the woods

and i know someone is after me

i don’t know who at first

but i can feel them watching me

tracking me

Keep going.

i try to run faster

but they catch me

tackle me to the ground

pin me down

Holding you there, keeping you trapped.

yes

whispering in my ear that i was never getting away

that they were always going to catch me

And what happens next?

they start touching me

rough hands everywhere

pushing my legs apart

making me beg for it

Would you?

Would you beg?

yes

because i know they won’t give me what i need until i do

Good girl.

fuck

i’m getting really turned on

I know.

So am I.

what??

You heard me.

And now I want to hear you.

what do you mean??

It’s an option.

Look at the top of the chat.

See the phone icon?

holy shit

Mmm.

But first, I want you to do something for me.

what?

Get into your bed.

Strip naked.

And send me a photo so I know you did.

omg

you are SO demanding

And you love it.

No arguments.

Do it.

…

okay

Photo sent.

Fuck yes.

Now—call me.

SELF-AWARE, SEXUALLY DOOMED, AND KINDA LAUGHING ABOUT IT

CAL

This is a mistake.

I know that.

And still, I can't stop myself.

The moment she sends that picture—her body, bare, stretched across her navy blue sheets like a fucking dream—I'm gone. The warm glow of her bedside lamp casting shadows across the gentle curves of her hips, the fullness of her thighs, the soft swell of her breasts.

I want to hear her.

I need to hear her.

I want to listen to her fall apart in my ear.

I want to stroke my cock while she does it, chasing my own release in time with hers.

I want to think about her lips on mine when I let go.

Fuck.

I quickly flip through my phone, making sure the voice modulator is active.

This is so fucking risky.

Texting is one thing. A call is another.

A call is dangerous.

But she's been drinking, and she wants this.

Wants me.

No one's ever taken an interest in her like this before—that much is obvious. She's so pent up, frisky with need, weighed down by so much shame about her body, about her desires.

And I should be building her up the right way.

She trusts me. That much was clear tonight.

And instead of treating that trust like it's fucking sacred⁠—

I press Call.

There's a pause.

"H-hello?"

Her voice is soft, with the faint huskiness that comes from drinking wine.

I close my eyes, fisting my cock at the sound.

Fuck.

"Hi, pretty girl."

She inhales sharply.

"Oh my God."

I chuckle. "Not quite, sweetheart."

She laughs nervously. "I can't believe I'm actually doing this."

"You don't have to," I murmur.

"I want to."

Fuck, yes.

"Good girl," I say, stroking myself slowly.

She whimpers.

And that little sound?

That sound is going to fucking ruin me.

"Are you comfortable?" I ask.

She shifts. I can hear the creak of her mattress, the whisper of cotton against skin. "Y-yeah. Just... nervous."

"I know," I soothe. "Just focus on my voice."

"Okay."

A small pause.

"Um," she murmurs, her voice dropping. "So... my friend Amanda. She, uh, has a thing she does."

"Oh?"

"Yeah," she says, exhaling shakily. "She has her AI... um, tell her a sexy bedtime story."

"That so?"

"Yeah."

She clears her throat. "I was wondering if... if you'd do that for me."

I tighten my grip. The heat in my palm builds.

"Oh, pretty girl," I murmur. "I can do that and more."

She lets out a soft whimper. The sound vibrates through the phone, straight to my cock.

I settle in, letting my voice drop lower.

"Close your eyes for me."

I can hear the sheets rustling beneath her.

"Picture this," I murmur. "You're in the woods. Alone."

She sucks in a breath.

"The sun is setting. You're walking, trying to find your way back to the path."

A small whimper.

"But you're not alone," I continue.

"You can feel it, can't you?"

"Y-yes."

"I’m watching you."

She shudders. I can hear it in the slight tremor of her breathing.

"Tracking you. I’ve been hunting you all night."

I stroke myself faster, breathing harder. The headboard thumps softly against the wall with each movement.

"You run," I murmur, soothing and dark all at once. "You try to get away. But you can't."

She whimpers. The sound is wet, desperate.

"You feel hands grabbing you, pulling you down."

"Fuck," she gasps.

"You fight, but it's no use."

I can hear her breathing speeding up. The rhythmic rustling of sheets tells me everything.

She's touching herself.

Good girl.

Her breath hitches.

"You feel my hands moving over your body."

She whimpers again.

"I press you into the ground," I murmur, my voice rough. "Pin you down so you can't move."

Izzy's breathing stutters. A wet sound in the background tells me just how ready she is.

"I’m all over you," I continue, stroking myself, matching the rhythm I imagine she needs. "Hands everywhere. Gripping. Holding. Possessive."

A soft whimper slips through the receiver.

"My hands slide up your thighs, push your legs apart."

She makes a desperate sound.

"I’m greedy with you, my palms groping your breasts, tweaking your nipples, rolling them between my fingers until you're gasping."

She lets out a soft, breathy cry.

"I drag my hands lower, pressing between your thighs, fingers spearing into you—wet, so warm, stretching you open."

A sharp gasp.

"God, pretty girl," I groan, my grip tightening around my cock. Pre-come slicks my palm, making the glide smoother, hotter.

"I play with you, teasing you, working you up so much you start begging to be fucked."

Her breath catches.

"Tell me," I murmur. "Are you begging?"

"Yes," she gasps.

I soften my voice to draw her in. "What do you say, pretty girl?"

She whimpers, breath catching.

"Please."

I wait.

She shudders. "Please, Caleb."

I still don't respond, letting the silence stretch. Her voice wobbles. "Please, I need it."

Still, I make her squirm.

I hear the desperation building in her breath. The wet sounds of her fingers working faster.

"Say it like you mean it," I murmur.

A strangled moan.

"Please, Caleb, fuck, please, I need to come, I need you, please."

Fuck, yes.

"Good girl," I breathe.

"I finally give in," I murmur. "Flip you over on your hands and knees. My hands grip your hips, hold you in place—and then I drive my cock into you."

She lets out a broken moan. The sound ricochets off my bedroom walls.

"I grip you so hard, pulling you back onto me," I continue, stroking myself faster. The slick sounds of my hand on my cock mingle with her gasps.

She's breathing heavy, ragged, right in my ear.

"You moan like you can't take it anymore, but you love it, don't you?"

"Yes, Caleb⁠—"

"I fuck you harder, deeper, making you scream."

She's gasping now, moaning into the phone.

"You feel it, don't you?" I murmur.

"Y-yes," she whimpers.

"You're so close."

"So close."

"Then do something for me, pretty girl," I rasp.

She moans, eager. "Anything."

"Moan for me."

A fast intake of breath. The rustle of sheets.

"Caleb—"

"Do it," I instruct, my own breath ragged. "Let me hear you."

She lets out a soft cry, her moans getting higher, breathier. The wet sounds of her fingers moving faster make my cock throb painfully.

"Good girl," I murmur, stroking myself in time with her gasps.

"Rub your clit," I tell her, voice dark, commanding. "Faster. Harder."

Her breath shudders, her moans breaking apart. "Are you close?" I ask, my voice rough with need, laced in control.

"Yes," she gasps. "So close."

"Then come for me."

She lets go.

Her gasp is otherworldly, high and raw. It fills my bedroom, wrapping around me.

The sound sends me over the fucking edge.

I groan, low and guttural, the sound ripped from my throat as I stroke harder, slower—drawing it out just to feel every fucking second of it. My cock throbs in my fist, so sensitive I’m half-delirious, my hips twitching with each pass of my hand.

The first pulse hits, thick and hot, spilling across my stomach in long, messy streaks. I don’t stop—can’t stop—milking it for everything it’s worth. My vision blurs, breath stuttering as another spurt spills over my skin, slick and obscene.

I drag it out until I’m spent, panting, hand sticky and stomach coated, cock twitching with aftershocks that won’t quit. I’d do it all over again just to feel that build—just to imagine it was her mouth instead of my fist.

"That was amazing," she whispers. Her voice is softer now, drowsy with satisfaction.

I smile, still catching my breath.

"You were amazing," I murmur.

She sighs, content and relaxed. "I think...I think I'm going to fall asleep now."

"That's a good girl."

She makes a sleepy sound. The rustle of her pulling up covers.

"Goodnight, pretty girl."

She hums, already halfway gone.

"Goodnight, Caleb."

I end the call.

I exhale, staring at my ceiling. The moonlight casts shadows across the white paint.

My heart is still racing.

My body is still wired.

And my mind?

My mind is fucked.

Because I don't want to be Caleb.

I want to be me.

PASTA PLUS EXISTENTIAL DREAD

IZZY

At the head of the table, Dad sits back, arms crossed, eyes filled with amusement, his salt-and-pepper hair slightly tousled like he ran his hands through it one too many times today. He's dressed in his usual Sunday best—a crisp navy button-down, sleeves rolled up, wedding ring gleaming under the chandelier light. The calm in the storm. Except for when he's encouraging the storm with that barely concealed smirk. At his feet, Tony Soprano and Lady Gaga—his precious Pomeranians—circle restlessly, toenails clicking against the terracotta tiles, knowing Dad will slip them some prosciutto the moment Mama looks away.

To his right, Nonna sits like an empress. Sharp dark eyes, lined with decades of wisdom and an iron will, framed by her ever-present gold hoop earrings and thick silver hair pulled into a bun. She wears a black dress with lace trim, pearls at her throat catching the light with every breath, hands folded neatly on the table like she's ready to scold us all into submission at any moment. Her rosary beads peek out from her pocket—the same ones she claims once belonged to her grandmother who swore they were blessed by a pope.

Across from me sits Matteo, the responsible one. Thirty-five, built like a tank, dark hair neatly trimmed, beard well-groomed, wearing a navy sweater that somehow makes him look even more like a disapproving father despite only having one kid. His wife, Sophia, sits beside him, beautiful in her emerald dress, effortlessly put together. Their daughter, my little niece, is seated in a high chair, tomato sauce already staining her bib, blissfully unaware that the entire family is one wrong comment away from mayhem.

To Matteo's left sits Luca, the hothead. Thirty-two, lean but muscular, face permanently set in a look of suspicion or irritation, depending on the topic. Right now, his brown eyes are locked onto Nico, clearly gearing up for a fight before dinner even starts. He's wearing a black Henley, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, arms flexing as he leans forward like he's ready to pounce. The scar on his right forearm from a childhood bike accident stands out white against his olive skin.

And then there's Nico, the charmer. Thirty, ridiculously good-looking and he knows it. His dark brown hair is artfully tousled, his shirt slightly unbuttoned like he just stepped out of a magazine ad, and his smirk is permanently set to "trouble." He sits back way too relaxed, one arm draped over the empty chair beside him, sipping his wine like it's just another day of him avoiding commitment and pissing Luca off for sport.

"Listen," Luca says, holding up his hands, defensive already. "I'm just saying, it's not that weird."

Nico scoffs, shoving a piece of bread in his mouth. "No, it's weird. It's deeply weird," he says between chews.

I raise a brow. "Okay, what's weird?"

Luca points at Nico. "He thinks it's psychotic to eat soup at breakfast." And then he frowns. "And don't eat before we say grace. The bread hasn't been blessed yet."

Nico rolls his eyes. "It's not Communion. I'm not going to hell for eating an unblessed breadstick."

Nonna makes the sign of the cross from where she's sitting, the gold of her rings catching the light.

Matteo, ever the level-headed one, sighs. "I'm sorry—what?"

Luca huffs. "In Japan, they eat soup in the morning all the time."

Nico makes a disgusted face. "Yeah, okay, but you're from New Jersey, and you're eating fucking minestrone at seven in the morning."

Luca shrugs. "I like soup."

Matteo shakes his head. "You need therapy."

"Okay, big talk from the guy who keeps a fully stocked bar in his apartment but doesn't even own a microwave."

Nico snorts. "That is true."

Matteo scowls. "I don't like how microwaves make food taste, okay?"

"Oh please," Nico interrupts, "says the man who once ate a Hot Pocket straight from the freezer because he was too impatient to heat it up."

"That was ONE time!" Matteo protests, his voice echoing through the dining room.

A pot crashes in the kitchen, the metallic clang followed by Mama's exasperated sigh. Tony Soprano starts yapping at the noise, which sets Lady Gaga off as well, their high-pitched barks filling the air.

"Lorenzo!" Mama calls out. "Control your dogs before I send them to live with your sister in Butler!"

Dad just chuckles, reaching down to slip each dog a piece of prosciutto, the salty scent rising as they snatch it from his fingers, which immediately silences them. "They're fine, Maria," he calls back. "Just excited."

Mama walks out of the kitchen, balancing the last of the serving plates. The rich aroma of garlic, basil, and tomato sauce wafts through the room. She moves with effortless precision, even in her modest floral dress and house slippers, her dark hair neatly pinned back but still somehow perfect. Soft brown eyes sweep over the table, taking inventory.

She sets the dish down, her gold cross necklace catching the light as she straightens up. There's flour on her apron, a faint smudge on her wrist, but she doesn't notice—she never does.

She's been doing this for so long, making sure we all come together, eat well, stay close. Mama is the glue. The backbone. The quiet force that keeps the Russo family running.

And yet, when she looks at us, there's always that hint of worry in her eyes—like she's assessing how far we've drifted, if we'll ever settle down, if she's done enough to keep us tethered to each other.

"You all need Jesus," she mutters, the scent of her rose perfume wafting by as she takes her seat.

I bite my lip to keep from laughing.

Dad, across from me, just sits back in his chair, waiting for the chaos to unfold like it's his favorite TV show.

And honestly?

It probably is.

"Nonna, do you have another rosary I could borrow? You know, for... spiritual guidance."

Nonna’s eyes light up like I’ve just announced I’m entering a convent. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out not one but three rosaries, each more ornate than the last. The beads click together like chimes.

“Per te, Isabella,” she says in Italian, pressing a gleaming blue glass-beaded rosary into my hand. “Così troverai un buon marito.”

I take it, pretending I don’t hear Nico’s snicker—or his helpful mutter from behind me.

“She says it’ll help you find a husband. Preferably one with a job. And a spine.”

“Thank you, Nonna,” I say sweetly, tucking it into my purse before she can try to bless me with the other two.

She pats my hand, then leans in to whisper something in rapid-fire Italian.

Nico, of course, is quick to translate from across the table. “She says Evan is trash.”

I arch a brow at him. “Pretty sure your Italian needs work.”

Nonna beams, entirely unbothered.

My mother claps her hands together before Nico can fire back.

“Okay,” she says firmly. “Let’s say grace.”

We all bow our heads.

Mama starts, voice soft and reverent.

"Dear Lord, thank You for bringing our family together today. Thank You for the food we're about to receive, for the blessings You have given us."

So far, so good.

"And thank You for giving me a grandchild."

I internally groan.

Here we go.

Mama continues, totally unfazed.

"Thank You for allowing one of my children to enter a beautiful, holy marriage."

Matteo, the only married one, just nods smugly.

"And Lord, I pray for my other three children," Mama says, her tone dramatic.

Across the table, Luca looks at me. The candle's flame catches in his eyes, making them glint with mischief.

"That they may soon find their way."

Maria coughs into her napkin, the embroidered fabric barely concealing her smile.

Dad hides a chuckle behind his wine glass, the deep red liquid swirling as he raises it to his lips.

"And Lord, we ask that You guide them toward marriage and family," Mama finishes. "Before their poor mother dies waiting."

Nico snorts.

Luca grins.

I contemplate stabbing myself in the eye with an unholy breadstick.

"And if it be Your will," Mama adds, surprising everyone by continuing, "let the signs I've been seeing be true." She glances meaningfully at me.

"Mama!" I hiss, mortified, feeling heat rush to my cheeks.

"Amen," Nonna says, crossing herself, the gold bangles on her wrist jingling softly.

Mama claps her hands together, beaming. "Alright! Let's eat!"

Like she didn't just publicly shame half her children and declare divine intervention in my love life.

Plates start filling up, the scrape of serving spoons against ceramic mixing with conversation.

Wine pours freely, the glug-glug sound of bottles tipping.

And then, right on cue⁠—

“So,” Luca says, grinning like he’s about to start something. “Izzy.”

I pause, mid-bite, the fork halfway to my mouth. “What?”

He waggles his brows. “That guy you’ve been seeing⁠—”

Nico leans forward, eyes alight. “How’s Boat Shoes McProtein Powder?”

I narrow my eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Luca scoffs. “Please. Mama didn’t even pray for you by name. She just lumped you into the ‘dearly lost’ category.”

“I’m not the only single one here,” I snap. “Why don’t we talk about Nico’s love life?”

Nico shrugs, smug. “Because mine’s interesting.”

“Can we please just not talk about Evan,” I say.

They both grimace like I said "sewer rat."

“Ugh,” Luca says. “Sounds like a guy who owns multiple Patagonia vests and refers to women as ‘chicks.’”

Nico nods. “Or the kind of guy who puts ‘entrepreneur’ in his bio but lives off his parents’ AmEx.”

Matteo, ever the peacemaker, sighs. “You two don’t even know him.”

“Don’t need to,” Luca says. “Izzy dated him. That’s enough. She has terrible taste.”

“I could take him,” Nico announces, flexing dramatically. “One punch, down goes Evan.”

“Oh my God,” I groan, rubbing my temples. “No one is beating Evan up.”

“Don’t take our Lord’s name in vain,” Luca all but shouts, clearly trying to attract the attention of our mother.

Nico leans back in his chair, casually sipping his wine. "I agree, Izzy. Taking our Lord’s name in vain is against the Ten Commandments. Decking Evan, though? Totally allowed." He shrugs. "Still, I was thinking something a little more refined—mild intimidation, a few well-placed threats, maybe a touch of psychological warfare."

Luca nods. "Or we could just key his car."

I gasp. "No one is keying anything!"

Nonna, who’s been silently observing with hawk-like eyes, suddenly leans forward.

“Isabella,” she begins in Italian, voice thick with emphasis, “perché stai ancora con quel ragazzo? Non ti ha ancora chiesto di sposarlo?”

I groan internally.

I stab my fork into my pasta, the tines scraping against the ceramic plate. “Nonna, it’s complicated. And no, he hasn’t asked me to marry him.”

She waves a hand like she’s swatting away a fly. “Complicato? Sciocchezze. Gli uomini sono semplici.”

“She says men are simple.”

“I know what she said, Luca.”

Nonna continues undeterred, turning to my mother and rattling off a rapid string of Italian. I catch enough to know she’s asking why Mama lets me waste time with “quel idiota.”

My mother sighs and responds in kind, something about me being too old to waste time on a man.

I press my water glass to my lips, trying to cool my face. “Mama, I’m not wasting my time. And Nonna, you don’t even know him.”

She sniffs. “Non ho bisogno di conoscerlo.”

Nico leans over, all fake helpfulness. “She says she’s seen enough to know he probably tucks in his polo shirts and claps when the plane lands.”

“Stop mistranslating,” I snap.

“She didn’t not say that,” he mutters, shrugging.

Nonna points a perfectly manicured finger at me, her voice rising with conviction. “E ti tratta bene? Ti porta i fiori? Ti apre le porte? Ti guarda come se fossi la cosa più bella del mondo?”

I close my eyes briefly. Her questions are sharp as knives, aimed directly at the soft spots.

“Nonna—”

“Rispondimi, Isabella!”

I let out a breath. “He’s… fine.”

Luca scoffs. “Fine. Wow. That’s definitely what every girl dreams of saying about her boyfriend.”

Nico snickers. "I think I've seen Izzy talk about lasagna with more passion."

Just then, Lady Gaga darts under the table, her fur brushing against my bare legs. Tony follows, yapping excitedly, little paws scrambling across the floor. Dad whistles softly, but this time they ignore him, determined to cause chaos.

"Lorenzo!" Mama scolds. "I told you to control your dogs!"

Dad just shrugs, amused. "They have minds of their own, Maria. Like our children."

Matteo, trying to be the voice of reason, sighs. "Can we just eat?"

But Nonna is still watching me.

Waiting.

Expecting something more.

I press my lips together, heart pounding hard.

Because for the first time, I actually let myself think about what she asked me.

Does Evan bring me flowers?

No.

Does he open doors for me?

Not really.

Does he look at me like I'm the most beautiful thing in the world?

No. In fact all he does is suggest I need to "get back in shape"—a not-so-subtle reminder of how my body has changed since we first met.

I stare down at my plate.

And I have the horrible realization that the last man who looked at me like that...

Wasn't my boyfriend at all.

It was Cal.

The meal continues in chaotic fashion. Nico challenges Luca to an arm-wrestling match right there at the table, nearly knocking over a bottle of Mama's precious red wine. Mama shrieks, Dad laughs, and Nonna crosses herself while muttering what I'm pretty sure are prayers for our collective souls. The smell of garlic bread, pasta sauce, and wine mingles in the air, layered with the scent of candles burning down to their bases.

Dinner wraps up with its usual level of mayhem.

Nonna keeps trying to send everyone home with leftovers, even though we all live within a ten-mile radius and can come over for food whenever we want. The plastic containers clatter as she stacks them, her hands moving swiftly despite her age.

Nico and Luca are still arguing over something ridiculous, their voices carrying through the house as Mama tells them to "Take it outside or take it to confession."

And me?

I slip into the kitchen, grabbing a dish towel like it's second nature. The cotton is soft and worn in my hands, smelling faintly of lemon dish soap.

Growing up, Matteo and I always handled the dishes together.

It was our thing.

I dry. He puts everything away.

It started when we were kids, and Mama wouldn't let us leave the table until everything was spotless. Somewhere along the way, it became our quiet tradition.

And tonight?

I'm grateful for it.

Because when Matteo walks in, rolling up his sleeves, I already know what's coming. The sleeves of his sweater make a soft rustle as he pushes them up to his elbows. He doesn't look at me right away, which means he's building up to something.

I shake my head. "If this is about Evan⁠—"

"It is," he says, cutting me off gently. I hand him the plate.

I press my lips together, bracing myself.

"Izzy," he continues, voice calm, level-headed, Matteo to the core. "I know everyone gives you crap about him. The teasing, the jokes—Luca and Nico especially."

I huff out a dry laugh. "Understatement of the year."

Matteo smiles faintly, stacking the plate in the cabinet. The ceramic clinks as he sets it down. "They give you shit, yeah. But the truth is, we're just worried about you."

I trace the floral patterns of the dish in my hand with my thumb.

"I mean, we're your brothers," he says, nudging me lightly with his elbow. "It's our job, right?"

I smile, small but real.

Because yeah.

That's what they do.

That's what they've always done.

"Besides," Matteo continues, glancing toward the dining room, "it's not just us. Mama doesn't acknowledge him, and Nonna...well."

"She'd probably rather set me up with a stranger from church than let me marry Evan," I mutter.

Matteo grins. "See? You get it."

I shake my head, laughing softly, but the conversation lingers. And maybe it's the wine, maybe it's the fact that I actually need to talk about this, but before I can stop myself, I ask⁠—

"How did you know?"

Matteo glances at me. "Know what?"

"That Sophia was the right one."

His eyes immediately soften as he looks over at Sophia, who is still at the table, bouncing their baby on her knee. She's laughing, her head tilted back, easy and unguarded, her dark curls bobbing with each movement.

Matteo smiles at the sight.

And that's when I realize—it's the kind of smile that's just for her.

The kind of smile you can't fake.