We follow Vincenzo through streets so narrow I'm convinced the buildings are slowly leaning in just to gossip.

Stone everywhere. Warm, worn, uneven beneath our feet. Laundry lines above us like they're part of the architecture. Every turn feels secret, like we're being led somewhere you don't find unless someone lets you.

Maya does not let go of Vincenzo's arm.

Not once.

She clings to him like he's a life raft and she's been lost at sea for years. I walk right behind them, close enough to catch her if she stumbles, which—given the wobble in her steps—is increasingly likely.

Behind me, Luke follows.

Quiet.

Too quiet.

Not sulking exactly. More like... absent. As if his body showed up but his mind checked out somewhere around Pisa. I try not to let it bother me. Try to pretend he's just another shadow on the stone walls.

A ghost, really.

We stop in front of what barely qualifies as a café. No sign. No menu. Just an open doorway packed with people and noise spilling out into the street.

"This one," Vincenzo says proudly. "Best bruschetta of your life."

He leans inside and calls out, "Alberto, per quattro."

From within, a voice answers, "Ah! Vincenzo—per quattro! Arrivo!"

Someone mutters something that sounds like capisci, and suddenly we're being guided to a tiny outdoor table pressed against the wall like it's hiding from tourists.

Maya attempts to sit.

Attempts being the key word.

"Careful," I say, grabbing her elbow.

She looks at Vincenzo, dreamy. "Wow. You look really hot when you speak Italian."

He smiles, shaking his head. "Sure, crazy woman."

I sink into my chair, mortified. "I'm really sorry. She's not usually like this. Alcohol does... something to her."

"Exactly," Maya says proudly. "That's why I drank. I was about to speak Italian and then—boom—YouTube. Dating. Trauma."

Vincenzo laughs and then glances between me and Luke.

"You two," he says slowly, searching for the word, "enamorados, sì? Lovers?"

My stomach flips.

"Uh," I say. "Yeah. Kind of."

"Kind of?" He frowns. "How can you be kind of in love?"

Luke finally speaks. "It's recent. Not many people know. We're keeping it low-key."

Vincenzo nods. "Ah. Secret lovers."

"No," I say quickly. "Nothing like that. Very legal."

Luke turns to me, smirking. "Not entirely."

I glare. "You understood what I meant."

"You're the one who said legal."

"If you're going to be like this just to annoy me—"

"I thought we passed complicated about twenty minutes ago," he cuts in. "This is advanced-level complicated."

I lean closer. "If you keep this up, I highly recommend stopping."

"Why?" he asks calmly. "What are you going to do about it?"

Then—soft, deliberate—

"Madison."

That name lands like a stone.

"When do you ever do something for yourself?" he continues. "Never."

Before I can respond, Maya slams her hand on the table.

"Okay! Brusch—brasha—whatever. Let's talk about that word. Please stop arguing. Guilt makes me drink more."

"No," Luke and I say in unison.

Vincenzo studies us, amused. "You don't look like new lovers," he says. "You look like an old married couple."

Maya bursts out laughing. "That is so true."

Before I can defend us, a man with a thick mustache appears.

"Vincenzo!" he booms. "Come stai?"

They launch into Italian, fast and musical. I catch bits—quattro bruschette, per favore. Maya, meanwhile, is openly drooling, chin propped in her hand.

I watch her and already know: tomorrow, she will die of embarrassment.

Today, though? She's in love.

Vincenzo leans back in his chair, folding his arms easily, clearly settling into the role of newly acquired friend who now wants context.

"So," he says, smiling at all of us, "how do you know Sofia and Henry?"

I'm grateful for the normal question.

"We all went to high school together," I explain. "The three of us, plus... a lot of the people here."

"Even before they dated," Maya adds proudly, nodding like she personally approved the relationship back then.

Vincenzo's eyebrows lift. "Ah. So you know each other for a very long time."

"Yeah," I say. "A very long time."

He nods slowly, like that information settles something for him.

"I am friends with Henry," he says. "He's a lawyer, yes? He had a case here in Italy—something with property. He stayed for a while, won the case, and I showed him around. Then Sofia came. And then..." He shrugs. "Friendship."

"That sounds very Italian," Maya says solemnly.

Vincenzo laughs. "It is."

The conversation flows easily after that—work, travel, Tuscany, the absurdity of weddings bringing together people who would never otherwise share a table this small. I almost forget, for a second, how carefully I'm balancing everything.

Then Vincenzo looks between Luke and me again.

"And you two?" he asks casually. "Where did you meet? What is your story?"

Silence.

Not awkward at first—just... empty. Like a space neither of us is willing to step into.

Luke looks at the table.
I stare at my glass.

Someone has to say something.

Apparently, that someone is always me.

"We met in school," I say.

Vincenzo smiles. "Ah! So lovers since high school."

"Oh—no," I rush. "No, no. We just started dating recently."

His smile falters, confusion slipping in. "But you met in high school... and now you date?"

"Yes," I say. "That's basically it."

He tilts his head. "So you always liked each other? Or this... just happened?"

Before I can answer, Luke speaks.

"It just happened," he says evenly.

Vincenzo nods, though his expression says he doesn't fully buy it.

I don't blame him.

Because even sitting here, listening to the words out loud, I'm not sure I understand the story we're telling.

All I know is that whatever this is—

it's already far more complicated than a simple lie.

The bruschetta arrives like a small miracle.

Four plates, crowded onto the tiny table, warm bread soaked with olive oil, tomatoes bright and messy, basil everywhere. The smell alone makes my stomach growl loud enough that Maya points at me.

"See?" she says. "She's not okay either."

Vincenzo laughs. "Eat. It helps with... everything."

Maya doesn't need encouragement. She grabs a piece immediately, mumbling something incoherent about Italian hands being blessed by God. Luke takes one more carefully, like even eating requires thought for him. I follow, biting into it and—annoyingly—he's right.

It is the best bruschetta of my life.

Conversation resumes, lighter now. Vincenzo tells us about growing up here, about summers packed with tourists and winters when the town belongs only to the people who know which cafés stay open past sunset. Maya asks questions that are half genuine curiosity, half flirtation. Luke listens more than he speaks. I nod, laugh, sip water, let the noise fill the space where my thoughts shouldn't go.

But they do anyway.

Because Vincenzo's question lingers.

How did you meet?

I chew slowly, staring at the crust of bread in my hand, and realize something unsettling.

I don't remember the exact moment.

Not really.

I remember around it. Before and after. The feeling. The shape of it. But not the first sentence, or the first look, or the first reason he mattered.

Which feels wrong, considering how much space Luke once took up in my life.

I try to rewind.

High school corridors. Lockers. Noise. He was just... there. Always there. Like a constant background element I never questioned. We shared classes, friends, sarcasm. Somewhere between group projects and lunch tables, between complaining about homework and sneaking out of pep rallies, he became mine in that undefined way teenagers invent.

Not dating.
Not exactly friends either.
Something suspended in between.

I glance up.

Luke is listening to Vincenzo explain something with his hands, nodding politely, jaw relaxed. Older now. Sharper. Quieter. But still unmistakably him.

When did that start?
When did he start?

I realize, with a strange twist in my chest, that I never remember choosing him.

He just... happened.

And maybe that's why this feels so dangerous.

Because lies are easy when they're built on nothing.

But this one?

This one is built on something I never fully understood in the first place.