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The worry didn’t disappear, but it loosened. She leaned into him for half a second, just long enough to let him hold some of the tension she was carrying.

Zeno looked over then, as if he had suddenly remembered we existed.

“Ayla, this is Adriana Serra.” His hand was still resting at her waist.

His gaze flicked to me, and something respectful entered it as he introduced his wife. “Adriana, my wife, Ayla.”

My wife.

Ayla stepped away from him, though his hand stayed at the small of her back until she was out of reach.

“Adriana,” she greeted me warmly. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for. Thank you for having us.”

Zeno’s gaze shifted to Demitri. “And this is my old friend, Demi.”

Ayla turned toward him, her brow drawing together as though the name had brushed against some buried memory. Before she could do more than offer Demitri a polite greeting, Zeno asked about her father.

“Your father?” Zeno asked.

“Resting,” she replied. “Stubborn. Irritable. Refusing to listen to the doctor’s instructions.”

“That sounds just like Domenico.”

Ayla’s mouth curved. She looked back at me, her voice softening by a fraction.

“I was at my father’s house. His health has been failing, and he’s decided to make suffering as inconvenient as possible.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“So am I.” She gave a small, tired smile. “Mostly because he is a terrible patient, and he’s the last of the family I was born to.”

Zeno’s expression shifted.

The love between them was not loud or performative. It simply existed in the space they occupied together. In the way his body angled toward hers and the way she spoke with confidence because she knew he was listening. It was in all the ways his eyes moved over her face when she wasn’t looking. It unsettled me. Because it was beautiful in a way that made absence obvious.

I had never been looked at the way Zeno looked at Ayla. I wondered, suddenly and painfully, whether anyone would ever look at me as though coming home began and ended with me.

Then I felt Demitri beside me. He had gone very still. His gaze was not on Ayla or Zeno now. It was on me.

I didn’t turn toward him. I couldn’t. There were too many things inside me I was not ready to show him. Too much hope, and hope had become the most fragile thing I owned.

Demitri was a priest.

And I was a woman who wanted to live.

For days I had only wanted to survive the next room, the next road, the next man reaching for me with violence in his eyes. But here, watching Zeno’s hand settle at Ayla’s waist and the quiet answering tilt of her body toward him, survival felt too small.

I wanted a morning without fear. I wanted to hear Demitri laugh without being startled by it. His hand at my back without danger forcing it there. A future, and I did not know if I was foolish or brave for letting myself picture one.

Hope was all I had left. And I clung to it foolishly, because there was nothing else solid enough.

Dinner was served in a dining room off the main hall. It held a long table, stone floors, a fireplace large enough to warm half a village, and windows looking out over the darkening garden.

Ayla sat beside Zeno at the head of the table, while Demitri took the chair directly across from me.

The meal was simple despite the grandeur of the house: a wide serving dish of pappardelle coated in a rich tomato and herb sauce, finished with shaved parmesan and torn basil. Beside it sat a crisp salad of rocket, tomatoes, cucumber, and red onion, dressed lightly with olive oil and lemon. There were bowls of roasted vegetables, marinated olives, and warm bread still crusty from the oven, with garlic and herb butter softening in a small dish near the centre of the table.