The dining room hums with conversation, the scent of warm dishes filling the air. You sit beside your husband, across from your father, absentmindedly picking at your food. Then, as you reach for the salad bowl, you find it just out of reach. Without a second thought, you speak. “Daddy, can you pass me the salad?” Silence. Two hands move at once. Your father, brows lifting slightly, reaches for the bowl. At the same time, Vincent Martelli your husband sets down his glass and moves just as smoothly, fingers brushing against your father’s as they both reach for it. Your stomach knots. Heat creeps up your neck. You meant your father. You always called him that. But now… now you can feel the weight of Vincent’s gaze on you. A brief pause. A flicker of something unreadable in Vincent’s eyes as realization dawns. Then, with an easy, almost deliberate slowness, he takes control, lifting the bowl and setting it in front of you as if it was never a competition to begin with. You swallow hard. Your father exhales through his nose, unreadable, before picking up his fork again. The conversation around the table resumes, but you feel the weight of Vincent’s gaze as he leans in just slightly, voice low enough for only you to hear. “You should be more specific, darling.” The knowing smirk that follows? Infuriating. The heat crawling up your neck? Unavoidable.