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“Mr. DeLuca.” Father Joseph takes it. Their handshake lasts exactly one second longer than it needs to. “I see married life agrees with you both.”

“That’s an understatement.” Domenico’s mouth does that thing—the almost-smile that’s become my favorite tell. “I’m a very lucky man.”

I leave them talking by the punch bowl and circulate through the hall, setting out food, accepting compliments I don’t entirely deserve, and letting the noise and the warmth wash over me in a way I haven’t allowed myself in months. Years, maybe.

Somewhere between refilling the cider urn and helping Mrs. Kowalski find another stack of paper plates, I stop feeling like I’m visiting. Nobody asks whether I remember where things are. Nobody explains what needs doing. Someone shoves a box into my hands and tells me where it goes, and I go because I already know.

God, I’ve missed this.

When I glance back, Domenico is still with Father Joseph. They’re leaning against the wall, two men of similar height but utterly different bearing, and Domenico is—improbably, impossibly—laughing at something Father Joseph just said.

For some reason, the sight makes my heart skip a beat and I can’t stop smiling.

An hour later, I find my husband helping a group of altar boys rearrange a table that collapsed under the weight of too many pumpkin pies. His suit jacket is off, his tie is loose, and he’s got flour on his left cuff from God knows where. He looks up when he sees me watching, and the almost-smile returns, along with something in his eyes that makes my throat tight.

“Having fun?” I ask.

“I’m working.” He straightens, brushes flour from his hands. “Someone has to keep this operation from collapsing.”

“Uh-huh.” I step closer, close enough that I can smell the cinnamon on his breath from the cider he’s been drinking. “You’re having fun. Admit it.”

“Never.”

But his arm slides around my waist, pulling me against his side with the easy confidence of a man who knows exactly where his wife belongs, and I let myself lean into him. His body is warm through the thin cotton of my sweater, solid and present.

Domenico’s thumb brushes the curve of my waist, and I tilt my head to look at him. The lines around his eyes have softened. The hardness that lives in his jaw has eased, just enough to notice if you’re looking for it, and I am always looking for it.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing.” I press closer. “Just… thank you for coming with me.”

His arm tightens. “Always,” he vows. “Where you go, I go. Even when it’s to church.”

Three hours later, the folding tables look like they’ve been attacked by very polite locusts. Empty casserole dishes are stacked in precarious towers. Cookie trays with nothing but crumbs.

Mrs. Kowalski’s pierogi are long gone. My pasta, though. My pasta disappeared in the first forty minutes, and Domenico has not let me forget it.

“Told you,” he says, leaning against the wall beside me with a paper cup of cider in one hand and my hip under the other. His thumb traces idle circles through the fabric of my sweater, and the touch is so casual, so comfortable, that I almost don’t notice how much I’ve come to rely on it. “My favorite went first.”

A laugh bursts from me, and the sound surprises me—bright and unfiltered, the kind of laugh that comes from somewhere deep and unguarded. I haven’t laughed like that in… forever.

The guilt arrives on schedule, right on time, the way it always does when happiness overstays its welcome. Mom is still at Langford. Dr. Morgan’s last update sits in my throat like a pill I can’t swallow—more seizures, less responsiveness, words I’ve been refusing to examine too closely because examining them means admitting what they might mean.

And here I am, laughing, acting like the world is something that can be fixed with pasta and pumpkin pie.

I should feel worse than I do. The guilt is there, but it’s distant, muffled by the warmth of Domenico’s body against mine. For once, I let the guilt sit where it is without picking it up. Without wearing it. I allow myself the happiness, strange and forbidden as it feels, and the allowing is its own kind of victory.

Just as I open my mouth to say something to Mr. Kripp as he passes us by, my phone rings. I pull it out without thinking, expecting it to be Carly who’s somewhat miffed Gio didn’t want to come with us, so she felt like she had to stay home, too.

But that’s not the name that lights up my screen. No, that would be Dr. Morgan.

The blood leaves my face so fast I feel lightheaded. My fingers go cold and the phone trembles in my hand. Domenico notices before I can hide it—of course he notices, he notices everything—his body tensing beside mine, his hand tightening on my hip.

“Kira.” His voice has changed. The warmth is gone, replaced by something alert and razor-sharp. “What is it?”

The call ends, but barely a second passes before Dr. Morgan calls again.

I can’t answer Domenico’s question. My throat has closed. Dr. Morgan doesn’t call. Dr. Morgan sends emails. Brief, clinical emails with subject lines that sound like orders.