Chapter 12 Isabella
Three days since the kiss.
Three days of careful distance. Of him staying in the barn except for his nightly shower. Of me finding excuses not to be in the kitchen when he comes in. Of stolen glances across the yard that we both pretend aren't happening.
Three days of lying awake at night remembering the way his hands felt in my hair, the taste of him, the sound I made that I can't stop being embarrassed about.
Three days of telling myself it can't happen again.
But I can't stop thinking about him.
I'm chopping onions for lunch when I make the decision. It's impulsive, probably stupid, definitely expensive. But I don't care.
I'm going to make him the red pasta.
The pasta he remembered. The one small piece of his past that came back to him. I'm going to recreate it, even if I have to guess at the recipe. Even if it means going back to the market and spending money I don't have.
For a moment, I question why I’m going to all this trouble for him.
But I already know.
Because he's been working himself to exhaustion fixing my farm, and has promised to protect us. And because three nights ago he kissed me like I was something precious, and when I pulled away, he understood.
"Elena," I call. "Get your shoes. We're going to the village."
"Again?" She bounces into the kitchen. "Can we see the baby chickens this time?"
“We'll see."
The drive to the market feels less terrifying in daylight, though I'm still scanning every car, every face. But I need tomatoes, garlic, fresh basil if they have it. Maybe some decent pasta, not the cheap stuff I usually buy.
The market is quieter today, fewer vendors. I don't see any strange men in expensive suits, and the relief is overwhelming. I move quickly through the stalls, gathering what I need.
Signora Russo raises her eyebrows when she sees my purchases. "Having a feast, dear?"
"Just... making something special." I can feel myself blushing.
She gives me a knowing look but doesn't comment. She adds an extra tomato to my bag with a wink.
On the drive home, I'm already planning the recipe in my head. I've made tomato sauce before, but this needs to be better. Special. I'll slow-cook it, add wine if I have any left, and fresh herbs from the garden.
Elena helps me unload the groceries, chattering about the chickens she got to see. I set her up with her coloring books, then get to work.
I dice the onions and garlic and sauté them in olive oil until the kitchen smells like heaven.
I add the tomatoes, crushing them by hand the way my grandmother taught me.
A pinch of sugar to balance the acid. Salt.
Pepper. The last of the red wine from the bottle my father opened months ago. Basil from the pot on the windowsill.
The sauce simmers on the stove and fills the house with rich, warm smells. I make fresh bread too, kneading the dough with more force than necessary to work out the nervous energy.
What am I doing? This feels too much like something a wife would do. Too domestic. Too intimate.
But I don't stop.
By evening, everything is ready. The sauce is perfect, rich and fragrant. The bread is cooling on the counter. I've even found a tablecloth, shaken off the dust, and set the table with my father's good dishes.
Elena is drawing at the kitchen table, humming to herself.
"Baby," I say, my heart pounding. "Can you do something for me?"
"What, Mama?"
"Go to the barn and tell Lupo dinner is ready. Tell him I made the red pasta."
Her eyes go wide. "He's eating with us?"
"Yes."
"Inside the house?"
"Yes."
She drops her crayon and runs for the door before I can change my mind. I watch through the window as she races across the yard, her little legs pumping, and disappears into the barn.
A moment later, she emerges with Lupo. He's wiping his hands on a rag, looking confused. Elena is tugging on his arm, chattering excitedly and pointing back at the house.
I turn away from the window, busying myself with the pasta. My hands are shaking.
What if he doesn't want this? What if it's too much, too soon? What if I'm reading everything wrong?
The door opens. Elena bursts in first. "Mama, I got him!"
Lupo follows more slowly. He's cleaned up, washed his face and hands, and tried to brush the sawdust from his clothes. His hair is slightly damp, like he ran it under water. He stops in the doorway and takes in the set table, the food, and the obvious effort.
"Isabella," he says quietly. "You didn't have to—"
"I wanted to." I don't look at him, focusing on stirring the pasta. "You said you liked red pasta. I thought... I wanted to make it for you."
The silence stretches too long. I risk a glance at him.
He's staring at the pot on the stove, and there's something in his expression I can't read. Longing, pain, recognition.
"It smells exactly right," he says, his voice rough. "Like... like I remember."
His words please me. "That's good."
"Sit down, Lupo!" Elena commands, climbing into her chair. "Mama made special dinner!"
He moves to the table slowly, like he's not sure this is real. I serve the pasta — generous portions because for once we have enough — and set the bread in the center of the table.
For a moment, we all just sit there. An awkward, makeshift family that feels right.
Then Elena picks up her fork. "I'm hungry!"
That breaks the spell. Lupo takes a bite of the pasta, and I watch his face, holding my breath.
He closes his eyes, chews slowly, and swallows.
"This is it," he says quietly. "This is exactly it. The pasta is delicious."
"You remember?"
"No. Not a specific memory. Just... a feeling. Like I've had this exact meal before. Many times." He looks at me, and there's something raw in his expression. "Thank you."
"You're welcome."
Elena is already covered in sauce, talking between bites about her day, the picture she drew, and how Lupo fixed the chicken coop door so the chickens can't escape anymore. He listens to her with complete attention, asks questions, and laughs at her stories.
I watch them together and something in my heart splinters.
This is what it could be like. This is what we could be together.
"Mama, this is the best pasta ever," Elena announces.
"I'm glad you like it, baby."
"Is Lupo going to eat with us every night now?"
I freeze. Lupo freezes. Elena just looks between us, innocent and hopeful.
"I don't know," I say finally. "Maybe sometimes."
"I think he should eat with us every night." She turns to Lupo. "Don't you want to?"
"I..." He looks at me, and there's a question in his eyes. Permission. An escape route if I want to give him one.
I should. I should make an excuse, keep the boundaries clear, protect myself from this.
But I don't.
"You're welcome to," I say quietly. "If you want to."
"I want to," he says, and the certainty in his voice makes my breath catch.
Elena cheers, and just like that, it's decided. Lupo will be eating dinner with us every night now.
We eat together, passing the bread and refilling glasses of water. Lupo compliments the meal twice more. Elena tells him about the cat she saw at the market. He tells her a story about something he can't even be sure is real, and it makes her giggle.
It feels normal. Safe. Right.
After dinner, Elena helps clear the table — mostly by carrying her own plate and feeling very accomplished — then I send her to get ready for bed.
"I'll be there in a minute to read to you," I promise.
She hugs Lupo goodnight, just wraps her little arms around his leg and squeezes, then runs off to her room.
Lupo and I are alone in the kitchen. The silence feels weighted, full of things we're not saying.
"Let me help clean up," he says, reaching for the dishes.
"You don't have to—"
"I want to. Please let me help you."
We wash dishes together, him washing and me drying. Our hands brush when he passes me a plate. Neither of us pulls away.
"Thank you for this," he says, not looking at me. "For dinner. For..." He trails off.
"For what?"
"For making me feel human again." He sets down the pot he's washing and turns to face me. "For making me feel like I'm not just... like I could be someone other than whatever I was before."
"You are someone else." I set down the towel, meeting his eyes. "You're someone who fixes things and protects people and plays with my daughter. You're someone who keeps watch at night to keep us safe. That's who you are now."
"Isabella—"
"I know it's complicated. I know we shouldn't—" I stop, unsure how to finish. "But I'm glad you're here. Even with everything. Even with the danger. I'm glad."
He takes a step closer, then another, until we're standing the way we were three nights ago in the barn. Close enough for him to reach out to touch. Close enough to kiss.
"So am I," he says quietly.
This time, I'm the one who closes the distance.
The kiss is different from the first one. Slower. Softer. Less desperate and more deliberate, like we're both choosing this with clear heads instead of getting swept away.
His hands cup my face, gentle despite their roughness. I grip his shirt, holding him close, and for just this moment, I let myself have this one kiss.
When we pull apart, we're both breathing hard.
"Elena," I whisper. "I need to put her to bed. And then—"
"I should go back to the barn."
Neither of us moves.
"Tomorrow," he says. "We can talk about this tomorrow."
"Okay."
He kisses me once more, then steps back. "Goodnight, Isabella."
"Goodnight."
He leaves, and I stand in my kitchen alone, touching my lips and trying to remember all the reasons why this is a terrible idea.
But all I can think about is how right it felt to have him at my table, how much Elena already loves him, how safe I feel when he's near, and how terrified I am of losing him.
I go to Elena's room and find her already in bed, clutching her rabbit.
"Did Lupo leave?" she asks sleepily.
"Yes, baby. He went back to the barn."
"Why doesn't he sleep in the house?"
"Because that's where he's comfortable."
"But the barn is cold."
"He has blankets."
She's quiet for a moment, thinking. "Mama, do you like Lupo?"
My heart stops. "What?"
"Do you like him? Like how people like each other in stories?"
"I..." How do I answer this? How honest can I be with my three-year-old? "I think he's a good man, Elena. So, the answer is yes, I like him."
"Me too." She yawns. "I think he should stay forever."
"We'll see, baby."
"Will he?"
What can I possibly tell her?
I don't know if he'll stay or if his memory will return or if the men from the market will find us or if Draco will track us down. I don't know anything for certain.
Except that I want him to stay.
And that terrifies me more than anything.
"Sleep now," I tell her, kissing her forehead. "Dream about nice things."
"Okay, Mama."
I turn off the light and close her door, then stand in the hallway for a long moment, trying to steady myself.
This is dangerous, not just because of the external threats, but because I'm letting myself want something I can't have. I'm building a dream that will shatter the moment reality catches up with us.
But maybe, just for a little while, I can pretend it's real.