Lia’s pov

The home was silent. Not the type of silence that resulted from emptiness, but the type that felt rich—warm, constant, vibrant. Lia was at the kitchen sink, finishing drying the last few dishes as the aroma of fresh paint hung in the air. From the window, she spotted Luca remaining in his newly constructed clubhouse, flashlight in hand, paging through a book. Dante rested on the porch steps, observing him, his stance casual in a manner that still felt fresh. He was making ...