Chapter Text
Visiting Italy has been the best idea ever. Thank you, Jan, for the suggestion.
It was a mix of a graduation and anniversary present from Lukas. Even though he claims our anniversary should be considered around nine months earlier, the first time we slept together because, I quote, “ I was done after that, Scarlett. ”
Whatever.
This has been our first real trip together. There was Amsterdam, and those few days in Stockholm with Lukas’ family, and then the Melbourne Olympics. Also St. Louis for Thanksgiving—if that even counts. But this vacation was a fully planned, fully selfish trip. No competitions, no family—until we fly to Sweden next week, at least.
We started out in Rome, where we did all the big, obvious things: The Colosseum, where Lukas stood staring quietly for ten minutes before moving on (I asked him if the Roman Empire was something he thought about constantly, and he looked at me as if I’d asked if Julius Caesar was a close personal friend. Lukas is not a social media guy). The Vatican Museums, where I was completely overwhelmed by the art while he steered us through the crowds with professional ease. The Trevi Fountain, where I made a wish and he just watched me with a smile, like I was entertainment (when I asked if he wanted to make one too, he said he already had everything he wanted. Who knew he could be so corny?). We walked until our legs ached, ate gelato twice a day, and ended every night on some tiny side street drinking a different kind of alcoholic drink and the most delicious dishes I could ask for.
From there we went south to Naples, which felt like pure chaos—horns blaring, scooters weaving between cars, vendors shouting over each other. It was overwhelming, but we ate pizza so good it made me cry.
Amalfi was next—sun, saltwater, cliffs that looked painted. We spent hours relaxing and indecently making out on the beach, getting up only to go for a swim or grab more granita. Lukas was relentless with the sunscreen, stopping every two hours to reapply it to my body and nose. I pretended to groan about it, but the truth is, I like having his hands on me, taking care of me. (And he knows it.)
And now we’re in Taormina, Sicily. Which might just be my favorite. The streets are enchanting, the water is absurdly clear, the food is ridiculously good. The looming shape of Mount Etna is… a little terrifying. I keep telling Lukas I’m afraid it’ll erupt and kill us all. He keeps telling me to stop watching disaster movies.
I’m so happy I could combust. We’ve never had this much uninterrupted time together, just… being us. I don’t want this holiday to ever end.
Yesterday we walked down to Isola Bella. The water was so turquoise it looked fake, like someone had photoshopped reality. We went snorkeling, and of course Lukas looked like a pro (is snorkeling a professional sport? I’m not sure, but if it was, he’d be a pro. It’s highly related to swimming after all.). Meanwhile, we all know I’m not the best at the activity of breathing, so I struggled with the mask. I wanted to be annoyed, but he kept being fascinated, pointing things out under the water—fish, shells, bits of coral—like a kid showing off treasures, and it was impossible to stay irritated at him.
Later in the evening, we walked down Corso Umberto, found a place to dine, and watched the sunset while drinking our Aperol Spritzes, like textbook tourists.
And tonight… We're going to a pasta-making class. Lukas claims he signed us up because “when in Sicily,” but I think he might just want to watch me humiliate myself in front of strangers.
It’s a teamwork class, though, so the joke’s on him. Probably.
The kitchen looks exactly the way I’d imagine an old Italian cooking school would: worn wooden tables pushed together in long rows, the air heavy with flour and olive oil, baskets of eggs and bunches of fresh basil waiting at each station. Aprons hang on the backs of the chairs. I pull mine over my head and fumble with the strings until Lukas ties them for me in one smooth motion.
“It’s unfair,” I mutter. “You’re the one with all the knot-tying experience in this relationship.”
“It’s a bow, Scarlett.” His lip twitches.
“Shut up.”
The instructor claps his hands for attention, and the class begins.
Making tagliatelle, turns out, isn’t that difficult. At least not when I have Lukas by my side doing most of the work. He forms the flour into a neat little well, cracks the eggs with surgeon-level precision, and folds everything together like he’s been doing it for years. I try to follow the chef’s instructions as best as I can, and I think I’m succeeding. I even lift my hand to ask a question at one point, and after everyone’s attention turns back to their own pasta, Lukas looks at me holding back a smile.
“What?” I ask defensively.
“You’re just taking this as seriously as a bio-comp class, it’s adorable.” So what if I am?
“You’ll be thankful once my tagliatelle tastes delicious.”
The room is filled with what I assume are mostly straight, mostly American couples from the sound of it. At the front there’s a tall curly-haired girl with an even-taller guy who loudly announced to the class that they’re getting married. Half their friends groaned like they’ve heard it too many times, but the instructor congratulated them and offered drinks on the house, so maybe it was worth it.
There are another few regular couples, and then there are two girls at the front—the first ones to groan at the wedding announcement. One of them is tall and dark-skinned, the other one a bit shorter, curly dark hairs tied up behind her.
They seem to be making a spectacular mess of everything, and the instructor has already taken them as an example of what not to do.
I try to help with the kneading, but my arms tire embarrassingly fast, especially for someone who spends a decent amount of time in the weight room (but then, I did get a few orgasms right before we came and I’m still feeling a bit boneless, I can be excused). Lukas slides in beside me, steadying the dough with his palms.
“Don’t press with your fingers,” he murmurs. “Use your weight. Like this.”
“Bossy,” I mutter, but I follow his lead, leaning in. It feels surprisingly satisfying—press, fold, turn. He nods, satisfied, and I can’t help the warm feeling in my belly.
Meanwhile, the girls at the front are losing the battle entirely. Their dough has turned into a sticky mess, and the instructor looks one beat away from a stroke.
“No, no, no! Look, everyone, the dough must be firm, elastic. Not… this.” He gestures like their bowl is a crime scene.
Most of their party laughs at their mess, and Lukas looks at me.
“You’re safe. Now you can stop worrying we’ll be the worst.”
“I wasn’t worried.” Was I?
“Sure.”
By the time we roll the dough flat, we’ve found a rhythm: I steady, he presses. He folds, I cut. The long ribbons fall away into near-perfect strands, and I can’t resist holding them up for inspection.
“Admit it. That’s gorgeous.”
He looks at the pasta, then at me. “Gorgeous.”
I roll my eyes, but my cheeks are hot anyway.
At the front, the dark-skinned girl is having a discussion with the instructor. I’m not sure he fully understands what she’s saying (did I hear something about "blasting electrons"?), but I think she scared him away, because he finally leaves them alone.
We get to eat our own pasta for dinner, on the restaurant’s patio. The staff plates it up with sauce and parmesan, and suddenly our lumpy little tagliatelle looks like something out of a magazine.
The patio is strung with lights, glowing soft and golden against the stone walls. The air smells like basil and lemon, and somewhere down the hill I can hear the ocean. It feels… cinematic. Too pretty to be real.
Lukas swirls his fork and takes the first bite, then nods once, decisively. “Not bad.”
“Not bad? Excuse me, I slaved over that dough with my bare hands.”
“You kneaded for all of three minutes before you pawned it off on me.”
“Details.” I twirl my own forkful and taste it. It’s fresh, silky, so much better than anything from a box. “You’re right this isn’t bad, it’s fucking amazing.” I moan into my fork. “We make a good team.”
He leans back in his chair, eyes on me instead of the food. “That we do.”
The warmth in his voice makes my face heat more than the wine.
“It’s crazy,” I say, twirling another forkful. “A little over a year ago I was terrified to even tell you how I felt. To hear you say it. Now we’re here, in Sicily, eating pasta we made together.”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “You make it sound improbable. For me, it was always the only possible outcome.”
I shake my head, mostly to keep from melting straight into the chair. We finish eating at a leisurely pace, wine glasses refilled once, maybe twice. When we step into the courtyard, the air has cooled, the soft night wind brushing my bare shoulders. The patio has an amazing view of the sea, and Lukas slips his hand into mine as I lean into him, and we just stand there in silence.
Until my phone pings, breaking the moment.
“It’s just—Barb,” I say, pulling it out. Sure enough: a reminder flashing across the screen. Call Mom.
He smirks, easy and knowing. “Go on, then.”
I go a little further back to talk to Barb for a few minutes. I update her on our trip, ask her about Pipsqueak, and when I turn around, I find Lukas having a conversation with the shorter Pasta Girl.
They look… cozy. And he laughs, like they’re having some private joke. And yet, I don’t feel an ounce of jealousy.
It’s strange. With Josh, I know I would have. I was never an obsessive, let-me-check-your-phone, don’t-you-dare-talk-to-other-women kind of girlfriend, but my insecurity and low self-esteem always made me compare myself to anyone he spoke to. Wonder if he might like her more, even if he didn’t act on it. And then eventually, he did like someone more.
But with Lukas, I don’t have that insecurity. He makes me feel so sure of what he feels for me. I’m always his top priority. He’s always touching me, checking on me, reassuring me with the simplest things. He makes me feel safe, loved, protected—and there’s no room for those insecurities to creep back in.
“What were you guys talking about?” I ask when he walks back over. “Was she giving you tips on making tagliatelle? Because I’m not sure you should follow them.”
He holds out his palm, a silver hoop resting in it. It looks just like—I touch my left earlobe. Empty.
I gasp, snatching it up. “I didn’t even notice.”
I think he’s going to ignore my question, like he does sometimes when he doesn’t want to answer—which I have to admit, hardly happens lately. He keeps opening up more and more to me.
But then he tells me.
“You’re going to love this, actually. That girl is in a deep unrequited-but-actually-requited-love, pining situation.” I widen my eyes.
I blink. “Tell me more. Since when are you handing out relationship advice?”
“Since about two minutes ago.” He shrugs. “And I didn’t advise her. I gave her your number.”
I frown. “I’m not much of a love guru either, Lukas.”
“Don’t I know it.” I pinch his bicep, and he smiles. “It’s easier if I show you.”
He guides me through the courtyard, then tilts his chin towards the bar.
The girl stands there, held firmly—borderline restrained—by a man on a stool. He looks much older, not creepily so, but definitely older, with a few gray streaks in his hair. I’d think they were family, if not for the way he’s looking at her. With an intensity that feels much familiar.
“Seems like it worked,” Lukas says, and I shift to look at him.
“Care to explain?”
He smiles at me. “She told me he’s her brother’s best friend, fifteen years older than her.”
“Ooh, older guy. Kinky.”
He snorts. “I don’t know if that’s the case—she said that she’s been chronically in love with him for a while, but he doesn’t feel the same”
I glance back at the pair. “Doesn’t really look that way from here.”
“That’s what I told her. He was staring daggers at me all across the courtyard the whole time we were talking.”
“I think you could take him.”
“Thank you for the vote of confidence.” He continues. “Then she asked me to flirt with her to make him jealous. I took her phone and gave her your number. Told her to send you updates.”
“Oh, I hope she does.”
It goes without saying, the fact that he gave her my number and not his—it wouldn’t have changed anything, I would’ve been fine with it. And yet.
“She also considered making him believe we’d be having a threesome.”
I arch a brow, smiling. “Really? Wonder how she picked up on that particular interest of yours.”
His mouth twitches. “I’m very subtle.”
“I’m sure.” I look at them again, they’re very close now, and the guy seems to be on his last nerve. “Well, I hope Older Guy gets over whatever issue he has. I’m rooting for them.”
“Me too. She seemed nice.”
“I just hope her plan is not cooking pasta for him.”.