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But when she turned, her smile was a touch too understanding.

“It’s okay. It’s my pleasure.” She beamed, squeezing my hand before gently prying it off. I battled a tangle of emotions, the chief of which was overwhelming gratitude.

“Thank you. So much,” I choked out, voice a little thick. She pretended to be busy paying and chatting up the tall red-haired shop assistant, while I pretended my eyes weren’t misty and blinked rather fast.

Carrier bag in tow, she handed it over, bumped my hip affectionately with hers, and gave me a watery smile.

“You’re welcome. Thank you for taking me out for a girls’ night,” she trilled, voice deliberately light. “You don’t mind Italian, do you? I’m really craving some.”

I chuckled at her endearing pout, nodded, and she hooked her arm through mine and led me along. Cool winter air bit at my face, sharp enough we pulled our coats closer as our steps clacked over cobblestone.

Day had come and gone, and now the sky bruised purple, darkening with every minute, as if someone was dimming the light.

The city centre was bedecked with glittering garlands, and tall pine trees hedged the little square, all of them decorated for Christmas. Large wreaths with glazed globes adorned shop fronts, cafés, and pubs, and despite the freezing temperatures, countless people hummed about, in search of the perfect outfit for New Year’s or of a pair of lips to kiss at midnight.

Raucous laughter greeted us as we pushed open the door to a nondescript little place. Next came the smell: mouth-watering cheese, basil, and something else. My stomach growled, a reminder we hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

A beaming olive-skinned woman welcomed us, not with the dazzling air from the shop, but with a familiarity that almost made me feel as though she’d been waiting for us.

Waiters smiled as they passed each other, and the rough stone walls, rustic wooden tables, and chequered tablecloths painted the picture of a small family restaurant.

The Prosecco arrived unsummoned, along with the water, before we’d even shrugged our coats off, as if they were equally essential. A song I didn’t understand played in the overhead speakers, mingling with the cheerful conversation, the sounds pulling my shoulders down an inch more.

The lone appetiser option made it easier to choose: a spread of cheeses, cured hams, olives—spicy and stuffed ones—and freshly baked bread, by the smell of it. My mouth watered as Pri broke off a piece and dunked it in the olive oil pooling in the little bowl without an ounce of remorse, humming happily as she chewed.

Half an hour later, the buzz of wine in my stomach had taken the edge off, and I was chortling at the paintings they’d done over the holidays.

I needed bleach for my eyes—her referring to them as “nightmare reindeer” had been… painfully accurate.

“This one has a… concerning amount of legs,” I snorted and handed her back her phone.

“Hey, shut up. Drawing legs is… complicated,” she huffed, wiping the plate clean with a piece of bread and opening the menu again, cheeks even pinker—though whether from wine or laughter, it was hard to tell.

“You’d think you’d try drawing fewer, then,” I chuckled, face equally warm, hair loose down my back.

Another buzz had my spine tingling with anticipation. I tried to check it surreptitiously, but tipsy me was as subtle as a bull in a chandelier store.

J: You know I don’t do ignored, Mia.

I might have to give you more bruises…But since you wear those so well, it shouldn’t be a problem.

I stifled a little squeal on my palm, and Pri’s eyes sharpened on me, relaxed smile pulling wider.

“Do I even want to know?” She arched a brow and took another sip.

I shook my head vehemently, trying to ignore the warmth pooling in my stomach that had nothing to do with food and everything to do with the heady cocktail of nerves and anticipation. I typed and deleted message after message, finally settling on one that would make my ancestors writhe with shame.

M: If you think that’s warranted…

I need Jesus.

Instead, I poured another glass, topped up Pri’s as well, and busied myself scanning the menu.

Or tried to. The lines blurred, and I didn’t know if it was from drinking or from nerves as I allowed myself an indulgent moment of wondering whether I’d see him later.

My insides did a little flip, one I wholly ignored.

A wild idea gripped me, sparked by craving a reminder of our first girls’ night out together.