“No, it’s… softer. Less like a contract negotiation and more like an actual person.” Dante’s tone shifted to something more serious. “Alessandro. What’s going on?”
Through the apartment window, Alessandro could see Marina in the bakery below, arranging pastries with her particular brand of stubborn concentration. She had flour in her hair. She always had flour in her hair.
He’d gotten used to it. He’d gotten used to a lot of things.
“I met someone.”
The silence on the other end lasted approximately three seconds.
“I’M COMING TO VISIT.”
“That’s not necessary…”
“I’m already booking the ticket. A woman who can make you sound like a human being? I have to meet her immediately.”
“Dante…”
“Don’t try to talk me out of it. I’ll be there tomorrow. Clear your schedule.” A pause. “Wait, do you even have a schedule anymore? David says you haven’t reviewed a contract in six days.”
“I’ve been… otherwise occupied.”
“I bet you have.” Dante’s grin was audible. “Tomorrow, brother. Prepare yourself.”
The line went dead.
Alessandro stared at the phone, already regretting the entire conversation.
But underneath the regret was something unexpected: anticipation. He hadn’t seen Dante in months; he hadn’t let himself slow down enough for a real visit. And some small, newly hopeful part of him wanted his brother to see this. To see the bakery and the town and the woman who had turned Alessandro’s carefully ordered life completely upside down.
He wanted Dante to meet Marina.
That, more than anything, told him how far gone he already was.
The argument started over something ridiculous.
Marina had opened her pantry to find it completely reorganized. Every ingredient labeled, every container aligned, every shelf arranged by frequency of use.
“You color-coded my spices,” she said, her voice dangerously calm.
Alessandro looked up from his laptop. “They were organized by vibes. That’s not a system.”
“It was MY system.”
“It was chaos.”
“It was MY chaos. In MY pantry. In MY kitchen.” She turned to face him, and he felt something he didn’t expect: hurt. Not anger, genuine hurt. “You didn’t ask.”
“I was trying to help.”
“You were trying to fix something that wasn’t broken.” Her arms crossed, the defensive posture he’d learned meant she felt exposed. “I’ve been baking in this kitchen for fifteen years. I know where everything is. Or I did, until you decided my way wasn’t good enough.”
Not good enough.How many times had he made someone feel that way without realizing? How many small reorganizations, small improvements, small efficiencies had actually been judgments disguised as help?
“Marina…”
“It’s not just the pantry.” Her chin trembled, barely. “It’s the way you look at my apartment. My schedule. My life. Like everything needs to be optimized. Like I’m a problem you’re solving instead of a person you’re living with.”
Her whole history landed on him through the bond: years of being overlooked, rearranged, treated like a problem on someone’s to-do list. And he’d waltzed in with his spreadsheet brain and made her feel invisible in her own home.
