"Where'd the boys run off to?" Mama asks, shoving a pot holder into my hand before turning back to the pot of sauce—or "gravy" as she insists on calling it—simmering on the stove. Three other pots are bubbling away, and something in the oven smells like it's about to burn.

I glance out the window, squinting at the backyard.

"You really don't want to know."

"As long as they're not breaking my furniture."

I snort. "They're outside. Luca and Nico kidnapped Cal."

Mama hums, stirring the sauce. "Mm. Hope he survives." She thrusts the wooden spoon toward me. "Here, taste."

I automatically do what every Italian child has been trained to do—take the wooden spoon, fling a dot of hot gravy into my palm, and lick it off. It's scalding, but years of practice have made me immune.

Before I can protest, Nonna’s already shuffling toward the back door, muttering something in Italian about "testing his worth" and "seeing if he knows his herbs."

Mama and I exchange a look, then trail after her.

Outside, the backyard has turned into an unofficial Roman coliseum. Cal is shirtless—because of course he is—playing a completely unhinged game of flag football with Nico and Luca. Only it’s less “flag” and more “blatant attempt at legal assault.”

Nico straight-up body checks him. Luca dives like he's trying to snap a rib. Cal just... laughs. He's bleeding slightly from the elbow, grass in his hair, and still grinning like he’s having the time of his life.

“C’mon, boys,” he calls out, breathing hard but tone still cocky. “Is that all you’ve got? Thought Italians were supposed to be passionate.”

Luca lunges at him again, and Cal spins out of the way. “You sure you’re not the backup dancers? 'Cause I’m not seeing any actual defense.”

Nico growls something in Italian that isn’t a compliment.

Cal winks. “Aw, did I hurt your little feelings, Nico? Don’t worry—I’ll still let you be the flower girl at the wedding.”

That earns him a full-body slam into the grass.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter under my breath. “He’s going to die.”

“He’s enjoying this,” Mama says, sipping her wine like this is normal.

I cross my arms, shaking my head. "Seriously?" I call out.

"You worried about me, pretty girl?" Cal teases, brushing dirt off his arms.

"I was worried about you," I say, pointing at him. "Now, I'm worried about my brothers."

I watch my mother’s expression shift into one of annoyance as Luca tackles Nico into the mud. "Are you kidding me?" she yells. "You're getting all dirty before dinner?!"

"Relax, Mama, it's fine⁠—"

"Luca!"

Luca flashes a grin. "Yes, dearest mother?"

"I swear to God, if you get mud on my tablecloth⁠—"

"Then I'll clean it!"

"You never clean anything!"

Nonna claps her hands. “Basta! Ragazzo! Origano.”

Cal jogs over, shirtless and sweaty, with grass stains on his knees and that same smug glint in his eye like he just walked off a cologne commercial called Blood & Basil.

Nonna hands him the tiniest wicker basket known to man and gestures grandly to the herb garden. “Origano.”

And then we all just... stand there. Watching.

Mama. Me. Nico. Luca. Nonna. I turn back around to see my dad and Matteo looking through the window. I hold back the groan.

All silently judging as this tall, shirtless, ex-military golden retriever of a man holds a baby basket and crouches near the herbs with the seriousness of a man defusing a bomb.

I brace myself for the inevitable mistake—but then, without hesitation, he plucks a sprig from the correct plant and walks back like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

Nonna gasps. “Ha capito! Eccelente!”

Nico and Luca scowl like he just passed some sacred trial they didn’t even know was happening.

Mama raises an eyebrow. “You garden?”

Cal shrugs, handing over the herbs. “No, ma’am. But I know my way around plants.”

There’s a pause.

Then my mother smiles. Not politely. Not vaguely. Warmly.

“Thank you, Callahan,” she says.

Nonna beams, practically vibrating with approval. He throws his shirt back on just in time for her to latch onto his bicep like she’s just won a prized ox at auction and starts leading him back toward the house.

“Bravo ragazzo,” she croons. “Bambini forti.”

My lungs seize. “Nonna!”

Cal’s eyebrows shoot up, but there’s that cocky little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Of course there is.

Nonna's eyes sweep over me, sharp but approving. Then she launches into a string of animated Italian, gesturing with both hands, one still gripping Cal’s arm like he might float away if she lets go.

“Era così magra da bambina—come un fagiolino! Non si poteva nemmeno distinguere dai maschi. Ma ora… guarda! Buone anche per fare bambini.”

I groan. “Nonna, no.”

Mama, ever the helpful interpreter, smiles sweetly. “She says you were such a little string bean when you were young. Couldn’t even tell you apart from the boys.”

Cal chuckles under his breath.

“She also says you’ve got good child-bearing hips now. A body ready for babies.”

I want the floor to open up and swallow me whole.

Cal nods solemnly. "I agree."

"Oh my GOD."

Mama shakes her head, moving to the refrigerator. She pulls out a bottle of wine, examining the label before handing it to Cal—who, notably, still hasn’t managed to escape Nonna’s grip. Not that he seems to be trying. She’s latched onto his arm like he’s already part of the family, and he just… lets her. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

"Here, open this. And Izzy, I wish you would've told me you were bringing someone. I would've made something lighter. You always said you didn't like the heavier dishes since you gained weight."

My cheeks burn. I'd forgotten I'd made that comment to her a few months ago, during one of Evan's worst "diet suggestion" phases. It stings even more because it wasn't even true—I love Mama's heavier dishes. I was just trying to explain away why I wasn't eating as much as usual.

Before I can respond, Cal steps in smoothly.

"Actually, ma'am," he says, his voice calm but firm, "I think Izzy looks perfect exactly as she is." His eyes meet mine across the kitchen, sincere and steady. "I've always preferred women with real curves. A woman should look like a woman, not a stick figure."

Mama pauses, her spoon hovering over the sauce.

Nonna claps her hands together in delight, rapid-firing something in Italian about how handsome Cal's babies will be.

"Well," Mama says finally, her eyes landing on Cal, then me. "It's nice to hear a young man with some sense." She turns back to her cooking, but not before eyeing Cal with what can only be described as maternal appreciation.

I duck my head, embarrassed but oddly touched. Cal moves closer, his hand finding the small of my back, a gentle pressure that grounds me. He leans in, his lips brushing my ear. "I meant every word," he murmurs, so only I can hear.

Mama flaps a dishcloth at us. "Out, out of my kitchen! Dinner in five minutes!"

"Dad," I say, suddenly appearing at my dad's side. "Can you please control Nonna?" Because she’s currently trying to grab ahold of Cal’s bicep again.

Dad just sips his wine, watching Tony Soprano and Lady Gaga battle over a scrap of prosciutto he definitely snuck them. "Controlling Nonna is like controlling the tides, sweetheart. Impossible."