By the time we leave the airport, I am ninety percent suitcase.

One presses uncomfortably into my ribs. Another is wedged against my knee. A third—soft-sided, mercifully—rests somewhere near my shoulder like it's trying to cuddle. I can't move without causing a minor avalanche.

The Fiat hums bravely beneath the weight of three adults, a decade's worth of unresolved arguments, and luggage that absolutely should not fit inside a car this size.

"So," Tessa says, twisting in her seat to look at me, ponytail whipping dangerously close to my face, "what have you been doing all these years?"

"Living," I say. "Breathing. The usual."

She gasps. "No, but like—career."

"I manage events," I say. "Mostly corporate. Brand launches. Galas. That kind of thing."

"Oh!" Her eyes light up. "So weddings."

"No," I reply immediately. "Not weddings."

"So weddings," she repeats, louder.

"I don't actually—"

"She totally does weddings," Tessa tells Ben, who hasn't said anything yet.

"I don't," I insist. "This—" I gesture awkwardly with my chin, because my arms are pinned. "This villa? I helped them find it because of a conference I worked on. Completely different thing."

"See?" Ben says mildly. "She doesn't do weddings."

Tessa scoffs. "If it involves flowers and crying, it's a wedding."

"It was a tech summit," I say.

"With flowers," she counters.

Ben sighs, the long-suffering sound of a man who has accepted his fate. "You said you'd let me drive."

"And I let you," Tessa snaps. "I just didn't say I wouldn't comment."

The car jerks slightly as we take a turn too fast.

My head taps gently against the window.

I close my eyes.

Ten years.

Ten years, and this is exactly how I remember it.

Locker-lined hallways. Cafeteria tables. Tessa arguing passionately about something that does not matter while Ben absorbs the impact like a human shock absorber. Everyone else watching, convinced this relationship is a ticking time bomb.

Still ticking. Still together.

"I'm just saying," Tessa continues, "if you had listened to me, we would've stopped for coffee."

"We just landed," Ben replies.

"Yes, and I've been awake since four."

"So have I."

"Then why aren't you more supportive?"

I shift slightly, a suitcase sliding ominously closer to my face. "If it helps," I say, dryly, "I'd also like coffee."

Neither of them hears me.

They're already arguing about something else.

Something about directions. Or air conditioning. Or the moral implications of electric cars.

Outside the window, Tuscany rolls past in warm greens and golds, hills folding into each other like they've been doing this forever. Cypress trees. Stone walls. Sunlight that makes everything look intentional.

Inside the car, chaos.

It's almost comforting.

By the time the villa gates appear ahead of us—tall, iron, dramatic—I'm emotionally exhausted and mildly dehydrated.

"Oh my God," Tessa breathes, argument forgotten instantly. "Look at that."

The car slows as we pull into the long driveway, gravel crunching beneath the tires. The villa rises in front of us, all warm stone and wide terraces and effortless elegance. The kind of place that doesn't need to announce itself.

Even suffocating under luggage, I feel a flicker of pride.

Perfect.

Ben parks with care, like the Fiat might disintegrate if he's too rough with it.

"Well," I say, as the engine shuts off, "we made it. Against all odds."

Tessa grins. "See? Worth it."

I take a deep breath, finally able to move as Ben opens the door and starts unloading bags.

Another moment. Another arrival. Another memory in the making.

And somehow, standing there in the Tuscan sun, watching ten years collapse into the familiar rhythm of bickering voices, I'm certain of one thing:

Some things really do last.

Even when you're absolutely sure they shouldn't.

It takes an embarrassing amount of time for all of us to get out of the car.

First comes Ben, unfolding himself carefully like he's been stored wrong. Then Tessa, who exits with the confidence of someone who believes the car should be grateful she fit inside it at all. Then the luggage—one suitcase, then another, then another, then somehow still another—until it starts to feel less like a car and more like one of those tiny clown cars where the joke is that there's always more.

Finally, it's my turn.

I take a deep breath and slide out, stretching like I've just completed a minor endurance test. Freedom never felt so good.

"See?" Tessa says, hands on her hips. "Plenty of room."

Ben just stares at the car, expression blank. "We violated several laws of physics."

Ahead of us, the gravel crunches under approaching footsteps.

Sophia and Henry stand near the entrance, arms open, faces bright, clearly determined to personally welcome every guest as they arrive. There are only a handful of cars parked nearby—five, maybe six—far fewer than the hundred people Sophia kept insisting would be here.

We're early. Of course we are.

"Welcome!" Sophia calls, already smiling wider than should be humanly possible. "You made it!"

Tessa beams. "Barely."

Henry laughs politely, eyes flicking to the car, then to the pile of suitcases, then quickly away.

"This place is..." Tessa trails off, looking around, impressed despite herself. "Wow. This is rich rich."

Sophia laughs, good-natured. "It's beautiful, isn't it?"

Tessa nods enthusiastically. "You must be very rich."

I wince.

"And you know who's not?" Tessa continues, turning sharply toward Ben. "Us. Because you never listen to me."

"We're doing this now?" Ben mutters, already reaching for another suitcase.

They start walking toward the villa, still arguing, voices overlapping, their fight somehow continuing uninterrupted as they disappear down the path like a familiar, bickering echo.

Sophia and Henry watch them go, eyes wide.

Henry exhales slowly. "Wow."

Sophia blinks. "I forgot they were like that."

"Everyone forgot," I say gently. "Until they don't."

Their attention shifts to me then, expressions softening instantly.

"Maddie," Sophia says warmly, stepping forward and pulling me into a hug. "You're here."

Henry grins. "Welcome to Tuscany."

I smile, genuinely this time. "I wouldn't miss it."

Sophia tilts her head, watching the arguing couple fade farther away. "You know," she says thoughtfully, "I always felt like you were the unofficial third Adams child."

I laugh. "Oh, please. I'd last twelve hours. Maybe less."

Henry chuckles. "Generous estimate."

They laugh with me, easy and familiar, and for a moment it feels like no time has passed at all.

"So," I ask, glancing around, "are you liking the villa? Is everything going according to plan?"

Sophia's face lights up. "Perfectly. Honestly—perfectly."

"People are still arriving," Henry adds. "But everything's running smoothly. We couldn't be happier."

"I'm glad," I say, meaning it. "And if you need anything—anything at all—just tell me."

Sophia immediately shakes her head. "No. Absolutely not. You are not working this weekend."

Henry nods. "You relax. That's the rule."

I raise my hands in surrender. "Alright. But don't forget—you two need to relax too. This is your weekend."

They exchange a look, softer now, more intimate.

"Thank you," Sophia says quietly.

"Anytime."

She gestures toward the entrance. "You can go in. Maya's already here."

My smile widens. "Of course she is."

Inside, the villa opens up like something out of a dream.

Warm stone walls. High ceilings with dark wooden beams. Sunlight spilling in through tall windows, carrying the scent of citrus, olive oil, and something floral I can't quite place. Staff move smoothly through the space, welcoming, efficient, already reaching for my suitcase before I can object.

It feels less like arriving at a house and more like stepping into a perfectly curated world.

Everything is Italian in that effortless way—textures, colors, air itself. Even the walls seem to hum with history. Outside, the heat is soft, golden, the kind that wraps around you instead of weighing you down.

I take it all in slowly.

Perfect moments. Carefully built.

The inside of the villa somehow feels even more unreal.

The space opens into what I can only describe as the heart of the house—a massive living room that doesn't try to impress and somehow does anyway. Stone floors worn smooth with time. Arched ceilings. Low, plush sofas arranged like they're meant for long conversations instead of decoration. Everything smells faintly of citrus and warm bread, like the house itself is welcoming you.

Huge glass doors stand open at the far end, letting sunlight pour in. Beyond them stretches a wide patio and an endless sweep of green grass, dotted with a few long tables already set with pastries, fruit, pitchers of something pale and sparkling.

A welcome spread, I think. Casual. Elegant. Very Sophia.

People drift in and out, voices overlapping, luggage rolling softly across stone. And then—

"MADDIE."

I barely have time to turn before Maya barrels into me.

She wraps her arms around my shoulders and jumps—actually jumps—and I laugh as I stumble back, hugging her just as tightly.

"Hi," I say, breathless. "It's not like I saw you two days ago."

"Shut up," she says immediately, squeezing me harder. "Embrace the love."

"I am embracing it," I laugh. "You're just aggressively affectionate."

She pulls back to look at me, hands still gripping my arms, eyes bright. "You're here. In Italy. In a villa that looks like it belongs to a wine commercial."

"I know," I say. "I think I accidentally walked into a lifestyle I can't afford."

She grins. "Good. You deserve it."

Maya looks exactly the same and somehow completely different—same warmth, same expressive face, same energy that fills whatever space she's in. Where I'm sharp-edged and sarcastic, she's open, soft, all feeling. We've always balanced each other that way.

"You flew in this morning?" she asks.

"Too early," I say. "I survived airport chaos, emotional whiplash, and a near-death experience in a Fiat."

Her eyes widen. "Please tell me that story involves Tessa."

"It absolutely does."

She laughs, delighted. "Some things really are eternal."

We stand there for a moment, taking each other in properly now, the noise of arriving guests swelling around us. The villa hums with movement and anticipation, sunlight shifting across the floor as if the house itself is breathing.

I glance past her, toward the open doors and the tables outside. "I'm guessing that's the welcome situation."

"Pastries, coffee, something bubbly," Maya says. "Sophia insisted it be casual. Which, you know. Casual for her."

I nod, smiling. "It's perfect."

She tilts her head, studying me in that way she's always had—gentle, observant, a little too perceptive. "You okay?"

"Yeah," I say easily. "Really okay."

She smiles, satisfied for now. "Good. Because this weekend is going to be... a lot."

I laugh softly. "When is it not?"

She hooks her arm through mine. "Come on. Let's get you something to eat before more people arrive and everything gets chaotic."

As we walk toward the patio, I let myself take it all in—the warmth, the light, the voices, the feeling of being exactly where I planned to be.

Perfectly placed inside a moment I helped create.