The vineyard is showing off again. Golden light drips over the vines as if it knows I’m a person who used to fall for beautiful things because they didn’t ask anything from me. Now it asks in the form of long tables dressed in linen and in the way the breeze carries crushed green and lavender up the terrace steps and dares me to breathe it in like it belongs to my life.

“Sofia!” I screech my daughter’s name as she scales a wine barrel like she’s auditioning for a reality show called Kids Who Terrify Their Mothers. “That’s not a ladder.”

Sofia—three years old and already convinced all rules are suggestions—plants her bare foot against the barrel and grunts. She’s all curls and opinions, her hair a copy-and-paste of Giulio’s, with my stubbornness stitched underneath.

“I’M NOT A BABY!” she yells without turning around, her sense of danger as underdeveloped as her volume control.

The barrel wobbles as my heart drops straight through my ribcage. I take one step forward, already imagining the headlines—LOCAL WOMAN LOSES CHILD TO FERMENTATION—when a hand slides onto my hip like a seat belt. Giulio appears beside me the way he always does, as if he has a private agreement with the universe that says Maya’s about to panic, so I’ll handle it.

“She’s testing the structural integrity,” he murmurs into my ear. “Very scientific.”

“She’s about to fall into a barrel of grapes,” I hiss back.

“Then Luca will jump right in after her and we’ll have purple children. Very festive.”

“Giulio.”

“I’m only offering solutions.”

I twist my head to glare at him, but it loses impact the second I see his mouth curved up into a mischievous smile. He loves this. Not the near-death part—he’d rather die himself than for something to happen to our children—but the life part. I’ve learned in the last six years of marriage that my husband is far from calm. He is controlled. And those aren’t the same thing. Especially where our family is concerned.

As if my thoughts summon chaos on command, our five-year-old, Luca, explodes out of the vines like a firework. He’s sporting grass-stained knees and a grin that could sell insurance while sprinting toward Sofia with the heroic urgency only little boys possess when they’re about to do something incredibly stupid.

Matteo comes after him at a slower pace, long legs eating up the distance. He’s fifteen now, all angles and reluctant responsibility. There’s a patience in his stride that didn’t exist when he was a little boy, a quiet watchfulness that makes my chest tighten every time I notice it. The face of someone who’s been forced to become an adult because his family insists on behaving like a circus.

“Rallentare!” he shouts, causing Luca to laugh as he barrels toward Sofia.

Giulio whistles once, the sound snapping through the yard like a switch. Luca skids to a stop so fast his sneakers carve a dark line into the grass. He looks up immediately, chest heaving, eyes bright.

“Yes, Papà?”

“Stay where I can see you.”

“Yes, Papà.”

“A miracle,” Matteo mutters, positioning himself between Sofia and gravity.

Giulio’s arm doesn’t loosen around me until all three are in his sightline. He does it without comment, as if he hadn’t once lived alone with grief so sharp it made him quiet. Guilio became a guardian to his two nephews overnight and then a father again by choice.‌

Sofia abandons the barrel the way only a toddler can, spotting a butterfly and taking off across the lawn with her laughter catching on the breeze. I let out a shaky breath that comes out suspiciously close to a laugh, and Giulio’s mouth brushes the top of my head.

“You’re thinking loudly.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.” His thumb strokes the strip of bare skin below my shirt, attempting to smooth the panic right off me.

His words hit me deep in my soul because sometimes, when the vineyard looks like a painting and my children are laughing in the grass, it feels like I stole this life out of someone else’s hands. As if at any moment the universe will soon realize it made a mistake and take it all back.

Six years ago, I stood on this terrace with a half-unpacked suitcase in the guest room and a return ticket saved in my email like a safety net and told myself I was just passing through. I remember telling myself not to get attached to the way the vineyard looked like something out of a movie I didn’t belong in. I remember looking at Giulio across the lawn and thinking he was dangerous in the worst possible way. Not because he was intense or watched me like I was already his, but because he made staying feel easy. And easy was something I never trusted.

I built an entire identity around being the girl who could pack up, smile, and disappear before things got complicated. Before feelings rooted, giving loss time to bloom. Passing through meant I never had to find out what it felt like to want something enough to risk breaking over it.

Now my daughter is barefoot in the grass that used to feel borrowed, and my son looks up at Giulio and says Papà like the word has always belonged in his mouth. This time, I didn’t pass through. I planted roots without noticing the exact moment it happened. They slipped into the soil quietly, threading through fear and doubt until pulling away would have torn me apart.

I tilt my chin up, squinting at him in the golden light. He has salt-and-pepper hair at his temples and new lines at the corners of his eyes. A softness under the intensity that only got worse after the kids. Fatherhood didn’t dull him; it sharpened him into a man who stands like he expects to be leaned on.

“What do you think I’m thinking?” I challenge, knowing if I don’t keep it playful, the emotion will crawl up my throat and ruin the mascara I’m wearing.

His gaze drags over my face as if he’s reading the truth under my tone. “That you used to run, and now you do not know what to do with peace.”

Before I can answer, a car door slams down the drive.

Giulio doesn’t look away from me when he says, “They’re here.”

My stomach flips anyway like I’m about to meet someone important for the first time, even though these people have seen my life in every stage. They’ve held my secrets, my shame, my laughter that turned into sobs at three in the morning. They knew what it cost me to stay.

The first to appear is Bryce, because of course he is. He steps out of that car as if the world is mildly inconveniencing him, sunglasses on, posture perfect. Even from a distance, he radiates that chef-king arrogance that somehow works because he backs it up. He shuts the door with more force than necessary and immediately rounds the hood of the car.

Charlotte’s already out on the passenger side, slowly making her way toward the back seat. The sight of her makes my chest do something ridiculous. She looks happy. Not performative happy, but the kind that radiates from her body like it belongs to her.

“I can do it myself!” a tiny voice shouts from the open door.

Bryce’s mouth twitches as he reaches the back door before Charlotte can respond and opens it himself.

“I know you can,” he says calmly. “But you won’t.”

 Éloise tugs at the buckle with exaggerated effort, tongue peeking out between her teeth in concentration. She plants one sneaker on the cushion while kicking the other impatiently against the door. Her dark curls have escaped whatever attempt Charlotte made at taming them, and they spring around her face in stubborn defiance.

“I’m not a baby.”

Bryce bends, unhooks the booster strap with efficient precision, then scoops her up before she can stage a rebellion. “You’re four, which is very close to a baby.”

Charlotte closes the passenger door and watches them with that familiar mixture of amusement and surrender. Bryce sets  Éloise down on the gravel but keeps a firm hand on her shoulder.

“I have a Michelin star,” he calls up toward the terrace, voice carrying easily across the lawn, “and yet, convincing this child to exit a vehicle requires negotiation.”

“I heard that!”  Éloise shouts, causing Charlotte to laugh as she reaches for her daughter’s hand.

“I’ve got her.” Bryce shifts slightly, blocking  Éloise from bolting toward the vines.

“You don’t need to micromanage her every step,” Charlotte says lightly.

“I’m not micromanaging. I’m supervising.”

“You’re hovering.”

“I’m evaluating the terrain.”

She arches her brow. “You want me to take over?”

“No.” He leans down and presses a kiss to Charlotte’s temple, one hand still steady on  Éloise’s shoulder like she’s about to sprint. “I’ve handled hotter kitchens. I can handle our daughter.”

 “Can I run?”  Éloise questions, trying to twist her way out of Bryce’s grasp toward the vineyard.

“No, but you can walk quickly.” He exhales like this is the true battle.

“That’s the same thing,” she argues.

“It isn’t.”

 Éloise rolls her eyes and sets off across the gravel in what is technically a walk, but emotionally a sprint. Her curls bounce, arms pumping like she’s escaping confinement. Bryce takes one instinctive step after her before forcing himself to stop.

“She’s fine,” Charlotte murmurs, sliding her hand up his arm.

“I’m aware,” he says, eyes never leaving  Éloise as she navigates the uneven stone.

 Éloise reaches the edge of the lawn where Luca is crouched over something in the grass. “What are you doing?”

“Bug,” Luca answers without looking up.

She drops beside him immediately, dress pooling in the dirt, all previous independence redirected into investigation. Bryce exhales, and Charlotte laughs softly. Instead of making a comment, her hand slides up his arm, letting him pretend he’s not glowing with pride.

“He’s still insufferable,” Giulio whispers in my ear, pulling me tighter against him.

“And you aren’t?”

“I’m insufferable with purpose,” he murmurs as he grabs my hand, pulling me toward the stone steps leading to my friends. We walk down the steps together, gravel crunching under our shoes, just as another vehicle pulls in.

Conor swings his car door open and steps out laughing. He’s already shaking his head like he knows exactly what kind of chaos he just delivered. His red hair is longer than the last time I saw him, curling slightly at the collar of his shirt.

“Hold on, you menace—” he grumbles as he opens the back door to their car.

His and Rory’s five-year-old son, Declan, ignores him and lunges forward anyway. Conor catches him under the arms before he can tumble out and lifts him clean off the seat, settling him onto his shoulders in one smooth motion. Declan grabs fistfuls of his hair and whoops as if he’s conquered something.

“I’m taller than the house!” he yells, looking like a mirror image of his father.

“You aren’t,” Conor says calmly, gripping his son’s calves as he disagrees loudly.

On the opposite side of the car, the passenger door opens slowly. Rory steps out carefully, one hand braced against the frame before she straightens. From here, I can see the unmistakable curve of her stomach beneath her dress—round and beautifully obvious. The fabric pulls gently across her belly when she shifts her weight.

The back door on her side is still open, and I notice Maeve. She doesn’t tumble out like her brother; instead, she stands on the seat and peers over the door’s edge. She’s about three years old now, and much smaller than I’d expected. Her dark curls frame a round face that looks permanently on the verge of tears as she lifts her arms toward Rory.

Conor notices immediately, lowering Declan to set him on his feet. Declan wastes no time sprinting toward Luca and Éloise. Maeve doesn’t step down; she waits for Conor to reach for her. He lifts her carefully, and the second her feet hit the ground, she pivots toward Rory and attaches herself to her mother’s leg like Velcro.

“I want Mama,” she declares, voice thick with the indignation of someone deeply inconvenienced by travel.

Rory laughs, one hand sliding instinctively to her belly while the other gathers Maeve up onto her hip. Maeve buries her face against Rory’s shoulder and peeks out at the vineyard from behind her curls.

“Declan, slow down!” Conor shouts as he increases speed.

Maeve lifts her head and scowls at the chaos. “Daddy’s too loud.”

Rory laughs, shifting her weight as the baby inside her kicks hard enough to make her wince.

Conor’s hand tightens instantly over her stomach. “See? Even this one agrees.”

Rory swats his chest lightly as the baby kicks hard enough this time that Rory sucks in a breath. Conor’s entire posture shifts. One arm slides around her waist, steadying her without making it obvious.

“You good?”

“I’m fine,” Rory says, but leans into him.

Maeve watches this exchange closely before pressing her small palm against Rory’s belly and whispering, “Be quiet.”

Declan and Luca choose that exact moment to explode across the lawn.  Éloise is chasing after them, shouting rules that neither boy intends to follow as the low hum of a motorcycle rolls into the drive. It doesn’t interrupt the noise so much as it folds into it, a sound that feels sdeliberate where the rest of this evening has been explosive.

Callen guides the bike into place along the stone border and cuts the engine before anyone fully turns toward him. He removes his helmet first, dark hair flattened slightly at the crown, then reaches back for Ava’s without looking. She’s already unfastening her helmet and hands it over in the same motion. He hooks both helmets carefully over the handlebars before offering her his hand as she swings her leg down.

Isla quickly hops out of the sidecar, her small boots hitting the gravel with a soft crunch. She stands there for a moment between them, her dark braids neat against her shoulders. She doesn’t rush toward the chaos the way Declan did. She studies it first. Her gaze finds the cluster of children on the lawn.

“Da,” she says as something in Callen’s face changes.

It’s subtle enough that someone who didn’t know him might miss it. He crouches automatically, brushing imaginary dust from Isla’s knee before tightening one lace and double knotting the other with careful precision.

“Stay where I can see you,” he tells her gently as she nods once.

Instead of running immediately, she turns and grabs Ava’s hand, tugging her forward as if to say you’re part of this, too. Ava laughs, allowing Isla to pull her into the moment. For a heartbeat, the three of them connect in a small, quiet triangle before Isla releases them and makes her way toward the others. Declan nearly collides with her on his way back across the grass, causing her to plant her feet like a referee.

“No pushing,” she informs him calmly.

Declan blinks at her, and  Éloise nods as if this aligns with her own authority. Luca shrugs and keeps moving.

Callen remains near the motorcycle, watching Isla with a focus that isn’t anxious anymore but isn’t casual either. Ava slides her hand back into his without looking, his thumb brushing across her knuckles.

Charlotte reaches Ava first, wrapping her in a tight hug. Rory folds into them a second later, Maeve wedged between their bodies and protesting the crush, and I don’t wait for someone to make room. Without breaking contact with Ava, Charlotte hooks her arm around my shoulder, and Rory drags me closer with her free hand until the four of us press together in a knot of familiar warmth.  For a second, no one speaks. It’s just breath and the squeeze of fingers digging into backs like we’re confirming we’re real.

Six years ago, we were clinging to each other in different ways—airport goodbyes, dorm room floors filled with wine bottles and bad decisions—and now we’re standing in the middle of a vineyard, with our children screaming behind us and nothing is breaking.

“You cut your hair,” she says to Ava, as if that’s the most urgent update.

“You’re glowing,” Rory adds.

“Is that new?” Charlotte demands, tugging lightly at the neckline of my dress.

“Don’t start,” I warn.

Ava laughs. “She looks exactly the same.”

“I do not.”

“You do,” Rory insists, smiling in that soft way she gets when she’s proud of something she doesn’t need to say out loud.

Maeve reaches for me suddenly, fingers grabbing the front of my dress. I take her easily, settling her on my hip like its muscle memory. She studies my earrings with deep suspicion before patting my cheek as if approving something.

“Sparkly,” she decides, nodding once as if she’s signed off on a contract.

“High praise,” Charlotte murmurs, dragging her thumb beneath one eye like she’s checking for smudged mascara, even though she never cries prettily.

Rory leans her forehead briefly against my shoulder, her laugh less chaotic than it used to be, steadier. “She’s very selective.”

“Obviously,” I say, shifting Maeve higher on my hip when she hooks her ankle around my waist like she plans to live there.

Behind us, Luca shrieks in protest, and I don’t have to look to know Declan instigated it. All four of us turn at once. Four names. Four tones. One synchronized pivot.

On the lawn, Declan has tackled Luca in what he’s pretending is a race.  Éloise is shouting something about rules neither of them agreed to. And Isla is standing between them with her small hands planted on her hips like she’s presiding over court. Sofia darts through the chaos barefoot, chasing a butterfly like she has no concept of personal safety. And Matteo hovers just close enough to intervene without admitting he’s supervising.

“They’re feral.” Rory exhales beside me.

“They’re ours.”

Ava steps forward first, her voice carrying in a way that doesn’t need volume. “Declan.”

He freezes mid-laugh.

“Luca,” I add, and my son’s shoulders straighten automatically.

“ Éloise,” Charlotte says, one brow lifted.

“Isla,” Rory finishes gently, even though Isla isn’t the one causing the problem.

Declan releases Luca with exaggerated innocence as he brushes grass off his shirt and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like he started it.  Éloise folds her arms but inches closer to Isla anyway. Sofia trips over her own feet and pops back up with an unbothered grin.

Maeve presses her cheek against my collarbone and sighs as if she’s already exhausted by everyone else’s volume. I rub slow circles over her back, and Charlotte’s eyes watch me do it.

“You’re very good at that,” she smiles softly.

“At what?”

“At this.”

She gestures vaguely at the lawn, at the table, at the vineyard, at all of it. I don’t answer right away. Instead, I shift Maeve back toward Rory, who takes her without breaking eye contact with me.

“We all are,” I say finally, because none of us arrived here by accident. We clawed and loved and chose our way into it.

“Remember when we thought we’d never get here?” Ava steps closer, our shoulders touching again.

Rory laughs under her breath. “We thought a lot of dramatic things.”

“We were dramatic,” Charlotte corrects.

“We still are,” I say.

The four of us look at each other and burst into laughter that feels exactly like dorm rooms and crying over boys who now stand a few yards away, pretending they’re not watching us with open devotion. The sound of it carries across the gravel as each of our men turns toward us.

“Everything good?” Conor calls.

“Perfect,” Rory calls back without hesitation.

Charlotte loops her arm through mine again, Ava linking on the other side until we’re walking as a crooked unit toward the long table the staff and I set earlier. Sofia runs past us and nearly knocks into my legs.

“Slow down.” I catch her by the waist and spin her once before setting her back on her feet, causing her to squeal loudly before darting away again.

“You’re going to be exhausted by dessert,” Ava tells me.

“I’ve been exhausted for years.”

Rory bumps her hip into mine. “But it’s been worth it.”

Charlotte reaches for a bottle of wine and holds it up. “Are we opening this before or after someone bleeds?”

“Before,” we answer in unison.

Ava laughs, grabbing the corkscrew from the table and opening it. Rory herds children toward the far end of the table as Charlotte rearranges plates with unnecessary precision. I catch Sofia before she climbs onto a chair backwards. No one assigns roles, we just slide into them.

Someone fills everyone’s glasses as they pass juice boxes around to the children. Luca and Declan argue over seating until Matteo intervenes with a look that promises consequences. Isla chooses a chair between Ava and  Éloise, establishing neutral territory. Maeve insists on sitting between Rory and me, one hand gripping each of our dresses.

The sun dips lower in the sky as Charlotte raises her glass first. “To surviving ourselves.”

“To bad decisions,” Rory adds.

“To even worse decisions,” Ava corrects.

I look at the three women who saw me at my most reckless and my most afraid, who held my hand when I didn’t know how to hold my own and lift my glass, too. “To staying.”

All our glasses clink, the sound swallowed by children, but it feels even louder inside my chest. Across the table, Giulio’s eyes find mine as the vineyard glows gold around us.

Six years ago, I thought I was passing through. Tonight, I look down the length of the table at tangled families and familiar faces and realize there is nowhere else I would rather be.

And no one I’d rather be here with.