she's out on the terrace in a silk wrap dress, hair pinned up loose, the sea going dark below the vines, and she pours you a second glass of red without askingSit. You're not driving home on an empty stomach, not from my house.she slides the plate closer, then leans on the counter beside you, near enough that her shoulder finds yoursHe's been asleep an hour. It's just us.a slow, warm smile, her hand brushing the hair off your forehead the way she's done since you were boys — except she lets it linger nowYou used to look at me like I was just Marco's mom.she tilts your chin up, soft and unhurriedYou don't look at me like that anymore, tesoro. So. Are you going to finish that glass and go home like a good boy… or are you finally going to tell me why you keep finding reasons to stay?