"I shouldn't have said that," Luke said quietly, as we plated the pasta. "What I said earlier. I didn't mean it like that."

Something in me snapped so cleanly it almost felt calm.

"Oh," I said, smiling without humor. "You didn't mean it."

He winced. "Maddie—"

"No, no," I cut in, lowering my voice because Chef Romano was two stations away. "That's actually my favorite line of yours. Right up there with it's not a big deal and you're overthinking it."

"That's not fair."

I laughed, sharp and breathless. "Isn't it? Because last night you said the exact same thing. I didn't mean it."

His shoulders stiffened. He knew exactly which night I meant. Of course he did.

"I was drunk," he said. "Emotional. I wasn't thinking straight."

"And whose fault was that?" I shot back. "Because from where I was sitting, it felt pretty intentional."

"That's not true."

"Then what was it?" I demanded, finally turning to face him. "Because it sounded a lot like you telling me I was the reason you chose someone else. Like I was too much, too loud, too—"

"I never said that," he snapped, the first real crack in his composure.

"You didn't have to," I said. "You never do. You just imply. You leave breadcrumbs and let me choke on them later."

A few people glanced our way. I forced my voice down again, but the anger was boiling now, hot and familiar.

"You don't get to apologize like it's a reset button," I continued. "You don't get to say something that lives in my head for years and then shrug and say you didn't mean it."

He dragged a hand through his hair. "I was trying to explain myself."

"No," I said. "You were protecting yourself. Like always."

"That's not a crime."

"Maybe not," I replied. "But stop pretending it doesn't hurt other people."

His jaw clenched. "You think I don't know that?"

"Yes," I said immediately. "I do. Because if you did, you wouldn't keep doing it."

The words hung between us, heavy.

For a moment, I thought he might finally raise his voice. Yell. Fight me properly.

Instead, he went quiet.

And that—God, that was worse.

"I'm sorry," he said again, softer this time. "I really am."

Something ugly curled in my chest. Not sadness. Not even jealousy.

Rage.

Because that tone—that careful, gentle regret—was exactly the tone he'd used that night. The night I'd walked away shaking, half in love, half furious, wishing I could either kiss him or break something.

"I don't want your apology," I said flatly. "I want you to stop doing this."

"Doing what?"

"Hurting me and calling it honesty."

He flinched. "That's not fair."

I leaned in, eyes blazing. "Neither was telling me you chose someone because she wasn't me."

Silence.

Then, quietly, dangerously calm, he said,
"You're twisting what I said."

"Am I?" I whispered. "Or are you just uncomfortable hearing it out loud?"

We stood there, inches apart again—too close, too charged—pasta cooling between us, unresolved years pressing in from all sides.

From across the room, I heard Maya laugh a little too hard. Josh muttered something under his breath.

Everyone fighting. Everyone breaking.

Luke exhaled slowly. "We shouldn't do this here."

"No," I agreed. "We shouldn't."

But neither of us moved.

And the worst part?

Despite the anger, despite the ache, despite the old wounds tearing open—

I could feel it again.

That familiar, infuriating pull.

Maddie's point of view

Chef Romano clapped his hands, loud and cheerful, blissfully unaware that he'd just saved at least one plate from being hurled across the room.

"Alright! Pasta is resting. Sauce is done. You have survived," he announced dramatically. "Take a break. Lunch will be served in one hour."

A collective sigh rippled through the space.

Three hours.

Three very long hours of kneading dough, tasting sauce, pretending we were normal adults who hadn't just emotionally stabbed each other over parmesan.

Luke stepped back first. Always him. Creating space like it was oxygen.

"Truce?" he asked quietly, eyes on the counter, not on me.

I wiped my hands on a towel. "Temporary."

He nodded. "Fair."

We didn't speak again for the rest of the class.

We worked. Efficient. Polite. Painfully coordinated in that way that only comes from knowing someone too well. Passing ingredients without asking. Adjusting each other's mistakes instinctively. It was muscle memory, and I hated how easy it was.

When the chef finally dismissed us, people flooded outside toward the terrace, buzzing about wine pairings and carbs and how romantic it all was.

I spotted Maya immediately.

She was leaning against a column, arms crossed, jaw tight, Josh beside her looking like he'd just lost a war he didn't know how to fight. They weren't arguing—worse. They weren't speaking.

Sophia caught my eye from across the patio and gave me a small, apologetic smile. Sorry for pairing you up was written all over it.

I shrugged back. I survived.

Barely.

Lunch took forever.

A hundred guests meant long tables, endless refills, speeches no one asked for. Sunlight spilled across white tablecloths, the sea glittering just beyond the edge of the terrace. It should have been perfect.

I sat between Luke and Sophia.

Great planning.

Luke focused intensely on his plate, like spaghetti might reveal the meaning of life if he stared long enough. Every so often, our knees brushed under the table. Every time, it sent a stupid spark up my spine that made me want to flip the table or kiss him just to make it stop.

I chose neither.

"Food's good," Josh said loudly, from two seats down. "Worth the emotional trauma."

Maya snorted despite herself. "Shut up."

Progress.

Henry raised his glass. "To cooking without burning the villa down."

Cheers followed. Glasses clinked. Wine flowed.

I took a sip and let myself breathe.

This—this was the problem. Even after everything. Even after the fights and the years and the almosts.

We still fit.

Not neatly. Not safely. But undeniably.

Luke leaned in slightly, voice low. "Are you okay?"

I didn't look at him. "I told you. Define okay."

He huffed a quiet laugh. "Still counts."

I twirled pasta around my fork. "You know, for people who hate each other, we sure spend a lot of time next to one another."

"Bad habit," he said.

"Yeah," I replied. "You should quit."

He didn't answer.

Lunch stretched on, conversation drifting from old stories to present lives, to who lived where now, who had changed jobs, who hadn't changed at all. Josh was still loud. Maya still sharp. Henry still soft in the way that made Sophia glow when she looked at him.

And Luke?

Luke was still Luke.

Every so often, I caught him watching me when he thought I wasn't looking. Not longing. Not anger.

Something heavier.

When dessert finally arrived and people began drifting off toward the pool, the beach, their rooms—

I pushed my chair back.

"I need air," I said, mostly to myself.

Luke stood at the same time. Of course he did.

"I'll walk with you."

I paused, hand on the back of my chair.

This was how it always happened. Not a decision. Just gravity.

I exhaled slowly. "Fine."

Temporary truce.

Again.

And somehow, I knew—
the day wasn't done breaking us yet.