You’re twenty-six now, but sometimes it still feels like you’re twenty, slipping into that new Italian restaurant with Bea tugging on your hand like a little kid on Christmas morning. You’d known her since the first grade — bonded over glitter pens and gummy bears — and when she begged you to try that new place that had just opened downtown, you figured, why not?

You didn’t expect the food to be that good. And you definitely didn’t expect the chef to be that gorgeous.

Marco with the dark eyes and the rolled-up sleeves and the accent that made your knees forget how to work. He was the chef, the owner, and apparently the kind of man who’d pay for your meal and slip his number to the waiter like it was nothing. Except it wasn’t nothing. Not when that night turned into a date. And that date turned into another. And another. And then suddenly, it was three years later and you were in Italy, in a villa overlooking the Amalfi Coast, walking barefoot in a custom-made wedding dress that made you feel like some kind of royal. He made sure it was perfect — the flowers, the food, your favorite song playing as you walked down the aisle, Bea crying like a proud mom next to you. And then came the honeymoon, a blur of sunsets and wine and falling asleep in his arms with the sea humming in the distance.

That was all three years ago.

Now you’re sitting in the backseat of a taxi with two squirmy mini-yous climbing all over you, one of them talking nonstop and the other clutching your arm like the world’s about to end.

“Is Italy big?” Aurora chirps, kicking her feet against the seat. “Is it bigger than our house? Is Nonna gonna be there? Will there be pasta? Mama, do you think—”

“Yes, yes, and probably, baby,” you laugh, adjusting her little sunhat while Theo lets out a small whine and buries his face in your shoulder. “Shhh, sweet boy, it’s okay. We’re almost there.”

Marco glances back from the front seat, smiling — that soft, familiar smile that still makes your heart skip. “She’s just like you,” he murmurs, eyes twinkling. “And he’s my shadow, but he only wants mamma.”

“Well, mamma’s the best,” you tease, kissing the top of Theo’s curly head. “You married her, remember?”

He chuckles and reaches over to squeeze your knee, thumb brushing against your skin like a promise. “I remember.”

You still talk too much — you know that. You talk when you’re nervous, when you’re happy, when you’re bored, when the silence gets too loud. You’ve always been that way. Some people rolled their eyes at it, made you feel like you needed to dim your light just to be easier to digest. But Marco never asked you to be quiet. Not once. He listens. Even when you’re rambling about your dream from last night or how Aurora called ketchup “red jelly.” He listens like it matters. Like you matter. And after all this time, you still can’t believe he’s yours.

The car pulls up to the house — his childhood home — and you feel your stomach flutter the same way it did the first time you met him. It’s nothing huge, nothing dramatic. Just a lovely, sun-warmed Italian villa tucked into a quiet hillside with olive trees all around and a stone path leading up to the front steps.

Home.

Aurora gasps and claps her hands. “Is this it? THIS is Italy?!”

“It’s a part of it,” Marco says, lifting her into his arms as Theo whimpers for the fifteenth time. You’re already patting his back, murmuring nonsense and pressing kisses to his soft curls.

“I like Italy,” Aurora decides with a sage little nod, already kicking off her sandals as Marco carries her up the steps.

You follow, cradling Theo and soaking in the smell of blooming lemons and sun-warmed earth and something sweet drifting from a nearby window. You never thought this would be your life. That you’d be someone’s wife, someone’s mother — that you’d be so full of love it practically pours out of you.

Marco pushes the door open, holding it for you. “Welcome home, amore mio,” he says, voice low and warm.