You muttered, “He has lived enough.”
Your father continued.
“She did not become strong that night. She was already strong. The room simply found out.”
The table quieted.
Your throat tightened.
Then he lifted his glass.
“To Isabella Varelli. May every man who underestimates her have excellent legal representation.”
Everyone laughed.
You did too.
When you looked at Luca, he was watching you with something steady and unguarded.
Later, after everyone left, he helped you carry glasses to the kitchen.
You stood side by side at the sink.
For a while, there was only water running and the faint sound of traffic outside.
Then he said, “I need to tell you something.”
You turned off the faucet.
“I hate sentences like that.”
“I know.”
“Proceed carefully.”
He placed the last glass on the counter.
“I love you.”
The words did not crash into the room.
They settled.
Like something that had been there quietly and finally received a name.
You looked at him.
He did not move closer.
He did not reach for you.
He simply stood there, letting the words belong to you now.
“I’m not asking for anything tonight,” he said. “I just decided silence was beginning to look like cowardice.”
Your eyes burned.
“I don’t know if I can do this well.”
“Love?”
“Trust.”
He nodded.
“I can wait.”
“What if waiting becomes wasting?”
“It won’t.”
“How do you know?”
He looked at you.
“Because being near you has never felt like waiting.”
That was unfair.
Beautiful, terrible, unfair.
You cried then.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just enough that Luca took one clean towel from the counter and handed it to you like a man offering a flag of surrender.
You laughed through the tears.
