Present

The knock came like an assault.

Not a polite tap.
Not a gentle good morning knock.

No—this was full-on rage knocking.

"MADDIE. OPEN. THIS. DOOR."

I groaned into my pillow, still half tangled in sheets, the echo of last night—and of nine years ago—still clinging to my bones.

Another knock. Louder.

"I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU DON'T OPEN THIS DOOR I WILL—"

I rolled out of bed, hair a mess, head pounding just enough to be annoying but not enough to justify murder. I opened the door.

Maya stormed in like a hurricane.

She was already dressed—linen pants, oversized sunglasses pushed into her curly blonde hair, fury radiating off her like heat.

"Coward," she announced to the room at large.

"Good morning to you too," I mumbled.

"NO. Absolutely not. We are not doing good mornings today," she snapped, pacing. "Josh is a coward. Capital C. Bold font. Underlined. Footnoted."

I squinted at her. "Is this... a continuation of last night? Or did something new happen while I was asleep?"

She waved a hand dramatically. "He slept."

I blinked. "Okay?"

"He SLEPT, Maddie," she repeated, like that explained everything. "After everything. After the audacity. After the nerve. He just—closed his eyes. Like a man who has never wronged anyone in his life."

"That's... impressive, honestly."

"He didn't even fight back," she went on, ignoring me. "No denial. No argument. Just silence. Like he gets to decide when conversations end."

She stopped pacing and looked at me. "You know what that means, right?"

"That I need coffee?" I guessed.

She stared at me.

I stared back.

Her shoulders slumped. "You're not listening."

"I am," I lied. "I just... don't understand half of what you're saying yet. It's too early for emotional war reports."

She scoffed, then collapsed dramatically onto the edge of my bed. "He called it survival."

I frowned. "Called what survival?"

She looked up at the ceiling. "Running away."

Ah.

That explained... something. Maybe not everything—but enough.

I rubbed my face. "Okay. I'm not equipped for this without caffeine. Give me fifteen minutes. We'll regroup downstairs. With food. And coffee. And maybe croissants strong enough to emotionally support us."

She sighed, finally deflating a little. "Fine. But I'm not done."

"I didn't expect you to be."

She stood, pointed at me. "Put on something comfortable. I might cry. Or yell. Or both."

"Noted."

She turned to leave, then paused at the door. "Also—if Josh shows up smiling like nothing happened, I might push him into the pool."

I smiled faintly. "I'll bring popcorn."

When the door closed, the room fell quiet again.

Too quiet.

I sat on the bed for a second longer than necessary, staring at nothing, my mind slipping—uninvited—back to the a particular moment.

I didn't mean it.

Oh, fuck him.

I shook my head, stood, and started getting ready. Shower. Clothes. Sunglasses to hide the fact that I was definitely thinking too much for nine in the morning.

By the time I headed downstairs, the villa was waking up—soft voices, clinking dishes, sunlight spilling into the open space.

Breakfast was already in full swing when I reached the terrace.

Sunlight poured over the long wooden tables, catching on glassware and silver cutlery, turning everything deceptively soft and peaceful. You'd think nothing dramatic had ever happened here. You'd think we were all just well-adjusted adults enjoying pastries and fruit and vacation air.

You'd be wrong.

Maya was already seated, aggressively buttering a croissant like it personally offended her.

Josh sat three seats away.

Three.

Not next to her.
Not across from her.
Three seats away, chatting casually with Henry like the world hadn't almost cracked in half the night before between him and Maya.

I slid into the chair next to Maya. "He alive?"

"Unfortunately," she replied, not looking up.

Josh laughed at something Henry said. Loud. Carefree.

Maya's jaw clenched.

Sophia arrived with coffee and placed a cup in front of each of us like a peace offering. "Let's all just... eat," she suggested gently. "Big day. No murders before noon."

Maya smiled sweetly. "No promises."

I wrapped my hands around my mug, inhaling deeply. A nice latte first. Emotional processing later.

And then—

I felt it.

That familiar awareness, like a shift in gravity.

Luke sat down across from us.

Not directly in front of me—but close enough that I could feel him there without looking. White linen shirt, sleeves rolled up, hair still damp like he'd showered recently. Calm. Too calm.

He glanced at me.

Just a second.

Long enough to acknowledge.
Short enough to pretend it meant nothing.

"Morning," he said.

"Morning," I replied, neutral. Polite. Adult.

We were very good at pretending.

Josh leaned back in his chair. "So. Anyone else feel like last night was... intense?"

Maya's knife hit the plate with a sharp clink.

"No," she said. "Just you."

Henry coughed into his coffee.

Josh raised an eyebrow. "Okay, wow. Still mad. Noted."

Luke cleared his throat. "Maybe we should—"

"No," Maya cut in, finally turning toward Josh. "You don't get to redirect this with your calm-voice nonsense."

Josh's smile faded. Just a little. "I'm not redirecting. I'm trying not to escalate."

"That's what cowards say."

There it was again.

The word hung in the air like a challenge.

Josh exhaled slowly. "You really want to do this at breakfast?"

"I didn't want to do it at all," Maya shot back. "You made that decision for both of us."

Silence spread across the table.

Sophia reached for Henry's hand. Henry squeezed back.

Luke shifted in his chair, eyes moving between them, tension etched into his jaw. "Maybe we should take a walk," he offered. "You two. Clear the air."

Maya laughed, sharp and humorless. "Oh, now you want people to talk things out?"

Luke flinched—barely—but I saw it.

I didn't mean to, but I spoke. "Maya."

She looked at me.

I softened my voice. "Maybe later. Not here."

For a second, I thought she'd argue.

Then she slumped back in her chair. "Fine," she muttered. "Later."

Josh nodded. "Later."

The truce was thin. Temporary. Fragile.

Conversation slowly resumed around us—wedding logistics, snorkeling plans, who drank too much the night before—but underneath it all, something unsettled hummed.

Luke leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice so only I could hear.

"You okay?"

I met his eyes. Really met them.

"Define okay."

A corner of his mouth twitched. "I don't want to fight you."

Another pause.

"Maybe you should think about that yesterday" I mumbled back to not get any attention.

"It's not like you are a saint, Miller," he said quietly.

My chest tightened before I could stop it. "Do not blame me, Parker."

He got quiet, his jaw tightened at the name and he didn't say a word.

From across the table, Josh watched us for half a second too long—eyes narrowing slightly, like he was starting to see something he hadn't before.

I broke eye contact with Luke and reached for my latte again.

Adult. Calm. Breakfast.

It makes me want to splash my latte at him.

If there is a god, He was laughing at me.

Because thirty minutes later, Sophia clinked her glass with a spoon—soft smile, hostess mode fully activated—and announced the first activity of the day like she hadn't just casually thrown emotional grenades into our laps.

"Alright, everyone! Welcome to day two," she said brightly. "We're starting with a cooking class—Italian cuisine—with Chef Romano. You'll be making fresh spaghetti from scratch."

A polite wave of excitement rippled through the guests.

I took another sip of my latte, bracing myself.

"You'll be working in pairs," Sophia continued. "So please—form duos!"

The universe leaned closer. Held its breath.

Sophia's eyes flicked to Maya. Then to Josh.

Her smile sharpened—just a little. "Maya, Josh, why don't you two pair up?"

Maya nearly choked on air.

Josh blinked. Once. Twice. "Oh. Wow. Straight to violence, huh?"

Sophia clasped her hands together innocently. "You two know each other so well."

Maya laughed—high, strained. "That's one way to describe it."

Josh stood anyway, because of course he did. Because arguing in front of a hundred wedding guests was not an option, even for them.

"Lead the way, partner," he said, mock-formal.

Maya shot him a look that could curdle milk. "Don't call me that."

They walked off together, tension crackling so loudly I was shocked no one else heard it.

Sophia turned back to the group.

"And that leaves..." her gaze landed on me, then Luke, "...Maddie and Luke."

I froze.

Luke didn't move.

For half a second, neither of us did—like if we stayed still enough, this wouldn't become real.

Then Henry leaned in toward Sophia and whispered, far too loudly, "This feels illegal."

Sophia elbowed him, smiling. "Go cook."

Luke exhaled slowly and stood. "Guess that's us."

"It'll improve your fake thing." Sophia gave a smile that begged mercy.

I pushed my chair back, maybe a little harder than necessary. "Oh yeah...totally."

We met at the prep table in silence.

The kitchen space was open-air, bright, ridiculously romantic—sunlight, long wooden counters, bowls of flour already waiting, soft Italian music playing in the background.

A cruel setting.

Chef Romano clapped his hands. "Welcome welcome everyone! I am Chef Romano and today you'll learn how to make the best spaghetti in your life, please choose your tables!"

"Let's make pairs! One person handles the dough, the other the sauce. Switch halfway."

Luke glanced at the bowls. "I'll do dough."

"Of course you will," I muttered. "Control freak."

His jaw tightened. "You want it?"

"No," I said quickly. "I want to survive the next hour."

"Probably hours" he corrected making me roll my eyes and almost pout.

That earned me a look. Not angry. Just... tired.

"Look," he said quietly, lowering his voice. "We don't have to talk."

I scoffed. "You're the king of not talking. I think you'll manage."

He didn't rise to it. Just nodded. "Okay."

Fine. Adult. Calm. Cooking class.

I focused on the tomatoes in front of me, chopping with maybe a bit too much aggression.

"You're going to murder the basil," Luke said after a moment.

"I'm tenderizing it emotionally," I replied.

A pause.

Then—against my will—I heard him huff out a quiet laugh.

I shot him a look. "Don't."

"What?" he asked. "I didn't say anything."

"That's worse."

We worked like that for a while—sharp comments, careful movements, not quite looking at each other.

Across the room, Maya and Josh were a disaster.

"Why is there flour on your face?" Maya snapped.

"Why are you yelling?" Josh shot back. "It's a noodle, not a thesis."

"Give me that," she said, grabbing the spoon.

"You always do that," he said. "You take over."

"You always disappear," she snapped back.

Chef Romano cleared his throat loudly.

They both smiled at him in perfect unison. "Sorry."

Back at our station, Luke leaned closer, voice low. "See? At least we're not them."

I rolled my eyes. "Low bar."

He hesitated, then said quietly, "About last night—"

"No," I cut in immediately. "Not here."

He nodded. "Later?"

I didn't answer.

Then a moment.

"Maybe, Not ever." I mumbled.

I tasted the sauce, adjusted the seasoning, then slid the spoon toward him without looking. "Try it."

He did.

"Needs salt," he said.

I smirked. "Of course it does."

"I am serious."

"Are you? Or are you just saying it because you want to piss me off?" I asked more to myself than to him.

Luke stilled.

Not dramatically. Not obviously. Just enough that I noticed—because of course I did.

He set the spoon down carefully. Too carefully.

"I'm not trying to piss you off," he said. "I don't need to try for that."

I huffed a laugh despite myself. "Wow. Confidence."

"That wasn't confidence," he replied. "That was experience."

I glanced at him then, annoyed all over again because he looked calm. Grounded. Like this wasn't eating him alive the way it was clearly eating me.

Chef Romano's voice drifted through the room, explaining kneading techniques, but Luke was closer now—too close—and the smell of flour and basil and him made it hard to focus.

"You said 'maybe not ever,'" he added quietly. "That's new."

I shrugged, turning back to the stove. "I'm evolving."

"Into what?" he asked.

"A person who doesn't reopen old wounds for fun."

"That's funny," he said softly. "Because you're the one who keeps poking them."

I slammed the spoon down harder than necessary. "I poke because you never explain. You disappear into silence and expect everyone to just—adapt."

He didn't raise his voice. Didn't match my heat.

"I disappear because every time I try to explain," he said, "we end up like this."

I turned fully toward him. "Like what? Talking?"

"Fighting."

"Same thing with us," I shot back.

For a second, something flickered across his face—tired amusement, maybe. Or resignation.

"Switch," he said, gesturing to the bowls. "Chef said halfway."

I opened my mouth to argue. Closed it. Swapped places with him instead.

My hands sank into the dough. Warm. Soft. Something that gave when you pressed too hard.

Figures.

"You're overworking it," Luke said gently.

"I'm kneading."

"You're punishing it."

I froze. Looked up at him.

"That wasn't about the dough," I said.

"No," he agreed. "It wasn't."

Silence stretched between us again, thick and uncomfortable.

Across the room, Josh laughed too loudly at something Maya said. Maya shoved him with her elbow. They looked like a storm waiting to break.

At least we weren't alone in this mess.

Luke cleared his throat. "For what it's worth... I didn't mean to make things worse last night."

I didn't look at him. "You always say that after."

"And you always pretend it doesn't matter," he replied. "When it clearly does."

I kept kneading, jaw tight. "You don't get to decide what matters to me."

"No," he said. "But I get to notice."

That did it.

I stopped. Hands still buried in dough, chest rising too fast.

"You know what I hate?" I said quietly. "That you see me better than anyone—and still choose to stay quiet."

His voice dropped. "And you know what I hate? That you make me want to talk."

Our eyes locked.

Chef Romano clapped his hands again. "Alright! Time to plate!"

The spell broke.

Luke stepped back first. Always him.

I washed my hands, avoiding his gaze, heart pounding like I'd just run a mile.

Maybe not ever, I'd said.

And yet here we were—circling the same truth, twelve years later, still pretending we didn't know exactly how this ended.