Dante’s pov

Dante was seated on the couch, looking at the sketchbook that Luca had left open on the table. The residence. The veranda. The upcoming time. It still felt unreal—the notion that they might possess something steady, something lasting. Yet whenever he gazed at that drawing, it eroded the ancient barriers within him, the ones constructed to maintain minimal expectations. Lia sat next to him, tucking her feet underneath herself. At first, she remained silent, merely sipping her ...