Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first time Chiara experiences a glimpse, she doesn’t recognize it for what it is.

One moment, she’s 7 and perched on the edge of a lake like a dragonfly in the shade of a tree. The cork oak rustled high overhead in the early September breeze and in the distance, her sister’s voice carried with it. 

“Mama~, mama! I picked this for you!” the younger girl exclaimed, dirty hands outsretched with a bunch of poorly-picked baby’s breaths. The older woman let out a pleased laugh, playfully kissing the younger girl’s forehead. Chiara’s mumbles something under her breath, eyebrows furled in conflicted emotion as she continued to play by herself. 

“Thank you Felicia, do you want to go play on the playground together?” the older woman asked, motioning in the distance. The younger girl perked up, wide toothy grin painted across her face. She jumped up and down in glee before taking off.

Relaxing slightly, Chiara unfurled herself as she skipped more stones across the lake, watching as the ripples crested and stilled. 

Mama has always doted on Felicia more than herself. Her sister held her likeness, light brown hair, pale skin, and bright chesnut eyes. 

The elder sister splashed her bare feet in the water, frowning back at the yellow eyes that reflected back at her.

Perhaps if she was less bratty and more like Felicia, then Mama would dote on her the same. Maybe if she didn’t say bad words, Mama wouldn’t yell at her so much. Maybe if she had given birth to her instead...

Her pebble skimmed across the water once, twice, before sinking. She leaned forward, ready to toss another. 

And then the world stopped.

The lake froze mid-ripple. The oak leaves above her hung suspended, their edges quivering on the edge of a breeze that no longer blew. Even the honeybee hovering near her knee hung motionless, wings blurred mid-beat, pollen suspended in the air like flecks of gold dust.

A strange pressure filled her ears, muffling the world. The air grew heavy, wrapping around her like a warm blanket. Her skin prickled, goosebumps rushing up her arms though the sun still glared hot overhead.

Chiara gasped, stomach swooping as though she’d stepped off a ledge. Her fingers trembled around the pebble in her palm.

Then the colors bled. The lake spilled into the sky, blues twisting with ivory streaks. The oak melted into green, teal washing over the branches like paint dragged too far by a brush. Shapes blurred, edges smudged, as though the whole world was watercolor dissolving in the rain.

It reminded her of finger-painting with Papa, of mixing too many colors until they became something new, strange, and yet beautiful. 

She doesn’t remember closing her eyes. The next time they opened; however, she found herself somewhere else completely. 

Still alone. 

Disorientated.

And standing in a valley of late summer wheat.

“...What?” the young girl breathed, gathering her bearings with shock taut on her lips. 

Golden stalks swelled and receded like the frothy waves of a hillside ocean. Chiara stuck her hand out as a warm breeze rushed between her fingers like running water. Her auburn dress swayed under its current, carrying the scent of hay and wildflowers. A lady bug flitted lazily around the young girl, landing with a plop on a nearby stalk. 

“¡-armen, ven aquí!” a girl’s voice rung out suddenly, high and silky like a bell. 

Another voice responded before giggles could be heard in the distance.

Confused hazel eyes searched the wheat field for the voices. To the right, acres of wheat swayed in the afternoon wind. However, to the left, towards the late day sun, two girls played in the sunbeams amongst the grasses.

A golden blonde and a brunette.

A warm breeze kissed up the back of her neck and Chiara pressed her arms into her sides, bunching the hem of her dress into her fists.

One moment, she’s alone at the water’s rim, skipping stones by herself. The next moment, she’s unsure of where she was, lost in a valley of wheat with two strangers.

“Hi…?” Chiara starts, hesitantly moving towards the duo. Her feet catch on a few rocks peeking from the sun-baked dirt and she stumbles, landing on her palms into the dirt.

The sound of her fall must have been far too silent to disturb the young girls. Chiara, picked herself up, shock and annoyance marring her dirt-smeared face. 

Even at this distance, she couldn’t make out too much of the both of their faces. It was clear that their features had been smeared in shades of beige and honey brown, as if purposely by an artist’s thumb. 

Chiara moved closer. Within a few feet of the girls, she calls out again. 

They still don’t notice her.

The young Italian watches as the pink tulle dresses they wore fluttered about as they played, makeshift butterfly wings flapping behind them. The dresses reminded her of a storybook her Papa had read to her about fairies in a forest. 

Both girls were very pretty, like the forest fairies in that story book.  However, the brunette stood out vividly to the Chiara. 

Warm ringlets of honey brown framed a round blurred face. Through the streaks and smatterings of blurred skin tones, Chiara could make out the lightest shades of emerald where her eyes should be.

Chiara feels heat rise to her cheeks, confused at the butterflies in her tummy. Gripping her dress, she stood awkwardly before them, watching as they played about in the sunlight. 

“H-hey!” she starts. 

Suddenly, this reality melts from her very eyes. She finds herself seated back in at the lake’s edge, pebble in hand, and clearly zoned out. “Chi-a-ra!”

The girl jumps, just as Mama stalks up to her. “Did you not hear me? I said that it’s time to go.”

Chiara jumps up and follows distractedly, fidgeting quietly with the pebble in her hand. If her mother notices anything different, she doesn’t care. 

◇

The following months proceed as if nothing happened. The sisters begin school. Felicia starts primary school and Chiara goes into her 3rd year at the same school. Felicia excels where Chiara fails— making friends, wooing teachers, and getting good grades. Chiara finds herself lucky if she can make more than a single friend in a given year.

Despite all of this, Chiara cannot forget about that day. Cannot forget about the warm sun on those grasses. The way the breeze carried on the wind. Those giggly fairies of the wheat field. 

It was a rainy winter day that she sat sleepily during the train ride home from ballet with Nonno, absentmindedly fidgeting with a button on her sweater. Her feet kicked underneath her as a forecast overhead announces the weather; currently overcast in her town but rainshowers for the rest of the region. She is dozing off, watching the clouds roll in the distance.

She instinctively yawned, eyes half-mast, pawing at her temple with the heel of her hand. And then — the world shifted.

The drone of the train stalled mid-syllable. The steady hum beneath her legs disappeared. Nonno beside her dissolved into stillness, his humming cut clean in half.

The air grew heavy. Her ears popped, pressure filling them as if she’d been dropped underwater. The edges of the carriage blurred. Silver and charcoal melted into each other, the windowpane dripping into sky, the sky dripping into the seatback. Her skin prickled, a shiver running down her spine. Chiara blinked—except she couldn’t remember closing her eyes.

And when they opened again, she was no longer on the train. She was barefoot in wet sand, waves clawing at the shore in the teeth of a storm.

Thick fog pressed against the horizon. Rain peppered her sweater and clung heavy to her lashes. A little boy sat only a few feet away, dressed head-to-toe in black, soaked through, with feet buried in the sand. His unruly auburn hair whipped in the storm, blurred like paint smeared by water, yet so vivid she could almost reach for it.

Chiara’s stomach swooped. Her skin buzzed as if the glimpse itself had followed her here, the air too sharp, too alive. He clutched some kind of delicate fabric in his grip; it trailed around his little body, half buried in the wet sand. 

Around him, the atmosphere weighed thick with something she didn’t have a word for. She may not have known grief, but she knew the shape of it — the sourness of it lodged sharp in her chest.

Unsure of what do to nor how to help, she stays with the boy for awhile. 

Taking seat beside him on the sand and tucking in to her sweater more, she shivers in the freezing rain.

He was blurry as well.

She could barely make out the way droplets traveled down his cheeks, gathering dew at the crest of his jaw.

“Hey…” she begins to ask, worried fingers outstretched to meet his arm. It phases through his body and the sensation of sharp white noise numbs her already cold fingers. She jolts her fingers back.

Papa had told of her something like this before. 

At her age, he too had visions of another person. They were called glimpses; Peeks into the life of the lover you will spend your life with. You can never make out the features of their faces, nor will you catch their names in these visions. But you can use the information you discover from these glimpses to find them.

For most people, they had one soulmate. 

And sometimes, for really special people, they had 2. 

…Papa never got to spend his life with his soulmate. 

She passed away shortly after she had given birth to Chiara.

Chiara never knew her real Mama, but she thinks back to the brown-haired fairy girl amongst the ocean of wheat. She thinks upon the boy in black to her left, one whose tears were currently mixing with rainwater and seaspray.

She doesn’t know what her Papa means by love. 

But she likes the girl’s smile, and she likes the shape of the boy’s nose.

...

Tracing shapes in the wet sand, she tucked her legs into her sweatshirt.

He hasn’t moved. She followed the fabric pooling around him, a few yards of storm-battered Venetian lace. Sand peppered the finer details, but it was clear that it was old, a beloved memento that meant a lot to the young boy.

“—vino!” a husky voice calls out, low and hoarse, almost swallowed by the storm.

Chiara spun her head to towards the direction of the voice, unsure of what it yelled out. 

Nothing but fog.

Turning back to the boy, she caught the first visible movement he’s made, a shudder.

And then, the world collapsed. The storm bled into static and she was back in her seat on the train.

The grey clouds still wandered by.

The speaker still droned on. 

And her grandfather still hummed, thumbing through his newspaper.

Chiara stared down at her numb fingers, chest tight.

She blinked, unsure if she had dreamed the whole thing. 

But the salt still lingered at the back of her throat.

◇

It was at the beginning of lower secondary school that Chiara promised herself she would score in the top five percent of her class.

With grades that high, she could apply for a boarding school in Rome. Admission there meant freedom — from Mama, her endless rules, and her even stupider expectations.

Which was why, for the first time in her life, Chiara was actually studying. A stack of pre-owned textbooks towered to her right. Her mp3 player hummed faintly in her ears, a reward from Papa for starting the year with effort.

She groaned. Studying spanish was always a pain.

But a requirement for admission. 

Cracking her knuckles, fingers reached to flip to the next page. She doesn’t quite feel the smooth paper as she expected.

Rather, her hand met warm air. The buzz of her music stalled mid-note. The pressure of the world pressed down on her ears, muffled and heavy, until the room blurred into watercolor streaks of silver and ivory.

She blinked.

When her eyes opened, she was sitting on her ass on sun-warm cobblestones. It’s rays beating down from a sky so bright it hurt. 

She blinks, confused at the situation, and stares at the boy who towers before her. A worn Madrid FC jersey clung to his shoulders, and paper bags strained in his arms. She couldn’t see his face — smeared, blurred as always — but she could see the definition of his growing arms, the quick, easy way he smiled as he thanked the vendor.

Chiara’s cheeks heated. She scowled at herself. Stupid. It’s just a boy. A blurry one at that.

Still, she found herself watching. The way he stacked peppers on top of tomatoes, completely oblivious that gravity existed. The way his voice carried, warm and bright, when he laughed.

He was in front of a vegetable stall, haggling for green peppers. Chiara could recognize the Spanish being spoke but was unsure of the dialect he used. 

With a rosy-cheeked ‘tsk’, she turned away from him, choosing to take in her surroundings with an increduously look. A market sprawled around her in a riot of color: fresh peppers and herbs, sausages hanging from hooks, the rich sweetness of churros curling in the air. Bougainvillea spilled purple from a balcony above.

Picking herself up, it was clear to the girl that the focus of her attention was supposed to be on the boy. She returned her attention to him, rolling her eyes to the ‘Gracias’ he called out, right as he turned. 

Straight into her. 

The sensation hit like static flooding her skin, a television’s dead channel crawling over every nerve. She full body shutters, cursing audibly as the sensation dulls her awareness of her body. It takes a few full breaths before the feeling subsides. By the time she looked up again, he was already weaving through the market.

Chiara scrambled after him, dodging between bodies and stalls. He was quick, darting down alleys and across crowded roads. The way he moved — fast, like his body was already used to pivoting, dodging, sprinting. She wondered with half-heartedly annoyance if he played soccer. 

On a particularly quiet street, far from the crowds, Chiara marveled up at the lines of suspended fresh laundry drying overhead between the buildings. A cool breeze rustled the linen overhead, making the hair that framed her face tickle her nose. A soccer ball sat in a nearby planter. The boy man manuevers up the steps of a worn apartment and steps inside, greeted weakly by an older woman’s voice. 

She almosts follows him inside. She took one step toward the stairs—

The cobblestones bled into paper. The air melted into the ink and margins of her textbook. She blinked, and the pen was back in her hand, drool dotting the corner of her notes.

Her heart hammered in her chest. She wiped the saliva from her mouth with a scowl.

…

She returned to her studies with a clenched jaw. She told herself she was going to focus, that she’d finish the chapter and push her way into the top five percent.

But her mind kept wandering. Back to the warmth of that sun, the noise of the market, the way the boy’s laugh had carried through the air.

She scowled at the thought, dragging her hand down her face. “Stupid,” she muttered under her breath, scribbling a line of notes with more force than necessary. “He’s probably the type to wink at girls and kick soccer balls at windows.”

Her chest gave an unhelpful flutter at the memory of his voice.

Chiara groaned, collapsing forward until her forehead pressed against the paper. “Ugh. Get out of my head.”

But no matter how many times she flipped back to her conjugations, the echo of his “¡Hola!” lingered, warm and insistent, like the sun that had followed her back from the vision.

◇

In upper secondary school, Chiara does not get long glimpses into her soulmates’ lives often. She is instead met with brief visions and sights.

The spanish boy is a busy body. He spends his time either at school, on the field, or working as either a tour guide or at the local convenience store.

It’s almost admirable how he could have so much time in the day to balance schoolwork, part-time jobs, AND play soccer. 

Maniac.

The girl spends a lot of her time at school, participating in various clubs and within the student council. A student’s blazer replaced the airy chiffon costumes of her childhood. She’s cut her hair into a bob since her childhood. It typically was gathered back into a short blunt ponytail in the back. Chiara catches her sometimes doodling fairies in her notebooks during class.  

The other boy reminds her of herself.. 

He spends a lot of time studying in his room, a quiet simple home he shared with his grandma nestled into the cliffside. He’s grown long and lanky and she catches him a few times in the back of a less-frequented library in the winters, contorted over a textbook with bleary-eyed determination.

It was during her first year at boarding school that Chiara met Francine, a chatty blonde from France with too much energy and too little filter.

At first, Chiara thought she was weird. The kind of weird that was cheeky, a little snobby, and insufferable for no reason. Not that Chiara was any better. Which was probably why, of course, they became fast friends.

In rare, quieter moments, Francine would talk about home—her parents, her schoolgirl crushes, and especially her cousin, a Spanish girl named Carmen. Every time the name slipped into conversation, Chiara’s stomach did a strange little twist. Her heart fluttered and she had no idea why.

Perhaps she’d been killed by a Carmen in a past life.

Or maybe she’d had an affair with one.

Either way, she ignored it.

Boarding school made her reckless in ways she hadn’t been before. Years of living under an overbearing mother cracked open all at once, and Chiara filled the gaps with trouble: A skateboard shoved under her bed. The body of another teenager sometimes in her sheets.

Curfews ignored, rules bent.

On the worst nights, when the voices in her head wouldn’t stop circling, she slipped wordlessly out into the dark. Just her hoodie, her board, and the grind of asphalt beneath her wheels. Nobody but Francine knew.

She had seen the other boy skate once during these years. Wobbly as a newborn faun on wheels, knees knocking as he pushed himself shakily down the street. The sight made something warm and inexplicable bloom in her chest.

She almost laughed. Almost called out. Instead, she kept her hands shoved in her pockets, skating past under the sodium-orange glow of the streetlamps.

◇

The holidays at the boarding school were quiet, halls emptied of most students. That winter of their junior year, Chiara and Francine stuck it out together, trading family obligations for freedom.

Francine’s room glowed with fairy lights, polaroids of their friends tacked across the walls. A shitty romance movie murmured in the background, its canned dialogue punctuated by the pop of candy and popcorn between their teeth. The two girls lounged cross-legged on the bed in their sweats, a half-finished bottle of cheap red wine between them.

Francine propped her chin on her hands, eyes glittering, alight with a story she just can’t wait to tell. “Okay, so—you know soulmates?”

Chiara groaned, defensive already. “I mean, yes…?” She sat up straighter, glass in hand. “Fran, I swear to God, if this is another one of your—”

“I met mine today!” Francine blurted, lilac eyes going wide with delight.

Chiara nearly choked.

Francine launched into it — the English girl in the laundry room, the sudden burst of roses, the world of color blooming. Chiara listened, cursing under her breath at how disgustingly romantic it all sounded.

“...A laundry room? Really?” she teased, smirking.

“Shut up!” Francine laughed, collapsing back dramatically into the pillows.

“It was perfect.”

They traded jabs until Francine, eyes sly, rolled back upright. “Alright, your turn. Tell me about yours.”

“Fuck no.”

“Chi~,” Francine whined, flopping onto Chiara’s lap this time. “I told you mine. Spill.”

Chiara leaned back, glass tipping against her lips. “No can do.”

“Why not?”

“Because I said so.”

Francine narrowed her eyes. “That’s not an answer.”

Chiara sighed, dramatic, rolling her eyes. “Girl, I don’t even know where to fucking begin with all of them.”

The words slipped out easy, loosened by wine and comfort.

Her stomach dropped the second they left her mouth. Chiara had always kept her glimpses and knowledge of her soulmates a secret. For a very important reason. 

Most people had one soulmate. 

Apparently, it was very uncommon to have two. These are the people of gossip and you’ll often find these types of people featured as the plot of movies, and on shitty reality television. 

In terms of three soulmates, you really only hear about that in old legends and myths. It turns out, nobody, other than the princesses and fairytales she read in the story books as a child, had three.

Like her.

Francine froze. “Wait. Them?”

Chiara stiffened, grip tightening around her glass. 

Shit. Shit. Shit.

She hadn’t meant to—

Francine sat up, hair wild, face lit with the kind of greedy curiosity that wouldn’t be sated. “What do you mean them?”

Chiara tried to backpedal. “I didn’t say that.”

“Oh no, no, no,” Francine said, eyes wide. “You did. You absolutely did. Tell me.”

Chiara hugged her knees to her chest, muttering, “Fuck. Fuck.”

She wanted to resist. She really did. But it was Francine, her best friend, already practically vibrating with glee, and with the wine warming her veins, the fight bled out of her.

So she told her. 

About the girl. 

About the boy on the beach. 

About the market and the laugh that stuck in her chest. 

She told her everything.

When she was done, Francine just stared, eyes wide, mouth parted like she’d forgotten how to breathe.

Then: “Chi. Chiara. You have three soulmates.”

“I fucking know. Don’t tell a fucking soul,” Chiara warned, pointing her empty glass at her.

Francine threw her arms around her with a squeal. “This is insane! This is incredible! You’re living a legend!”

Chiara groaned, muffled against her shoulder. “Fran, I swear to God, I will bury you under this dorm if you tell anyone.”

Francine only giggled, already drowning in questions. “Who do you think you’ll meet first? What do you think their abilities are? Oh my God—”

“Bah!” Chiara cut her off, burying her face in her knees. “Shut up! I don’t fucking know.”

But for the first time, saying it aloud didn’t feel like a curse. It felt lighter. Like she wasn’t carrying it all alone anymore.

◇

Graduation passed in the blink of an eye.

By then, Francine was the only person in the world who knew the truth about Chiara’s three soulmates — and she guarded it like treasure. If anyone else brought up the subject, Francine would swoop in with a diversion, while Chiara sat tight-lipped and defensive, muttering curses into her wine. It was the unshakable rhythm of their friendship: Chiara carried the secret, and Francine carried her.

Now, in their second year of university, the two of them lived together in a small apartment just off campus. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was theirs.

Chiara woke early — too early. For the thousandth time, she cursed herself for signing up to be a TA for an 8 a.m. class. Hair mussed from sleep, she shoved her comforter aside and dragged herself up, the hem of her oversized T-shirt slipping around her thighs.

A hot yawn split her face, scattering the motes of dust that danced in the morning light. She scratched her side, grunting, and padded barefoot to the bathroom.

Warm yellow light meets the young woman as she toes out of her pajamas and into a warm shower. Water pooled at her feet as she woke up under the warm pattering.

The warm spray of the shower was supposed to wake her up, but instead it lulled her into zoning out. Hand hovering over the shampoo pump, the air pressed heavy in her ears. The white tiles blurred, edges smearing into ivory and beige.

She blinked—

And found herself standing in another bathroom.

A man faced the mirror, razor in hand. His features blurred into strokes of silt and sand, but the cut of his jaw was clear as day. The curve of his shoulders too, strong under the plain white undershirt he wore. The young boy by the sea had turned into a man before she blinked.

Chiara leaned against the counter beside him, arms folded, water dripping down her bare skin. She watched the easy way he moved, steady and practiced — until the blade slipped.

“Fuck, ouch!” he muttered, dabbing at the nick.

Chiara sighed, lips curling into a reluctant smile. “Dumbass,” she murmured.

And then she was back — shower pounding against her shoulders, steam curling thick around her. She shook her head— quickly finishing before getting dressed. Hair fell in waves down her back as she gathered it all and began to braid it back into a neat fishtail. She caps the end with a rubberband and begins to fixes her bangs for a quick moment. The reflection that frowned back at her was her own. All gold eyes and warm skin. A smattering of freckles sat lightly across the bridge of her button nose. Her gaze is unfocused, as she yawns once again. “Goddamn, I’m so cute..”

A mug clinked on the coffee table and Chiara peeked her head out to wish her roommate good morning.

The only reply was a mumble. She snorted. 

“Damn, Fran. You were so excited to wake up early with me yesterday.”

…Silence.

Chiara padded into the living room to find her best friend curled cross-legged on the couch, sipping coffee with the mechanical precision of the barely alive. The glow of her phone screen painted her face as she scrolled lazily through social media.

Chiara grinned, dropping onto the couch beside her. “Getting your daily dose of brain rot, I see. Where’s the Francine who wanted to walk to class with me?”

“Not here,” Francine said flatly.

“Well I’ve got places to be, miss. If we’re late, I’ll never hear the end of it. TA life, remember?”

Francine groaned, throwing her head back, blonde hair tumbling like spun gold. She stared at the ceiling like it might offer mercy.

Chiara smirked. “Did you also forget you have a lunch date with Alice?”

Francine’s head snapped forward, eyes wide. In one swift movement she set her coffee aside and scrambled off the couch. “I’m getting dressed.”

“That’s my girl.” Chiara stretched her legs across the cushions, smug.

It’s 30 minutes later. Francine is halfway down the hallway before she pauses.“Oh — I’ve been meaning to ask. My cousin’s starting classes here next semester. She asked if she could move in with us.”

Chiara pursed her lips with a hum. “...Depends. Which cousin?”

“Carmen.”

The name hit Chiara like a stone dropped into her stomach. Or maybe like wings, fluttering until they knotted tight in her belly. Her pulse skipped, heat creeping up her neck. Maybe she really did get fucked by a Carmen in a past life or something.

She brushes off the feeling. 

“As long as she pays rent and doesn’t make the place smell like paella, I don’t care.”

Chapter Text

The day that Carmen moves in, it’s the day before the classes start for the semester. 

Chiara spents the first half of the day in the library inbetween her musclehead friends, Alfred and Gilbert, reviewing material for the class that she’ll be leading as a TA. 

Both boys had their laptops propped open, but instead of studying, they had a movie with subtitles playing on one screen; on the other, social media pulled up. Alfred digs out a handful of stale popcorn from his backpack, secretly slipping pieces into his mouth. Chiara gapes at him incredulously behind perched glasses… before asking for a piece.

After their “study session”, she does a bit of some last minute shopping, picking up a few notebooks and a new pack of pens. 

It’s 6:30 when Chiara is wandering up the stairs to her shared flat, straightening out the jeans and plain t-shirt that hung off her body. Sunset’s light filtered through the dusty hallway adjoining the apartments and the young woman hums in the warm late summer afternoon. Stopping in front of her dorm, she crouched in front of the planter to the right, absentmindedly turning over the leaves to the tomato plant that sat within. 

“Thirsty one arn’t you…” she hummed to herself.

Fishing out her keys, Chiara fiddled with the lock for a moment, the wine-bottle keychain clinking against the ring before she finally pushed the door open.

A pair of stunned emerald eyes collided with warm honey. Chiara froze mid-step.

The most beautiful woman that Chiara had ever seen was in her apartment.

Not just any woman—taller than her by an inch or two, dressed down in plain shorts and a white tee, soft brown curls brushing her shoulders in waves too familiar to dismiss. Her irises were a strange alchemy—sage dusted with flecks of goldenrod that seemed to spark as they widened. A flush bloomed up her neck to her cheeks, deepening into her ears, and when her lips parted, it was in a smile so bright and so disbelieving it bordered on reverent.

Chiara’s pulse skipped. The air seemed to thicken around them. Every hair on her arms rose as if her body recognized something her brain couldn’t name.

“Hola,” the woman breathed, voice trembling between nerves and joy. “I’m Carmen.” 

Her grin tipped toward heart-shaped, earnest and overwhelming. “I’ve been waiting so long to meet you.” She stepped forward, eyes alight with knowing.

Chiara shifted in her spot, struggling to fight that specific type of fight-or-flight response that appears when you meet someone who is one hundred percent your type. The meaning of the woman’s words lost on her.

“Nice to meet you.” she managed, polite smile plastered in place, while her inner voice cursed her outfit choice. A t-shirt. Seriously?

“Do you, um, need any help unpacking?”

Carmen’s smile faltered. 

A flicker of disbelief darted across her face, quickly smothered by panic.

“Oh! No, I’m fine,” the spaniard said too quickly, the edges of her voice fraying. 

Her hands flexed at her sides like she wanted to reach out and then thought better of it. She looked, for one split second, like she might either faint or bolt.

Chiara shifted her weight, nails biting into her palm. 

“Okay, um—I’ll be in my room, then. Just—let me know if you need anything.” The words spilled out in a rush before she could stop them.

They both retreated at once—Chiara stumbling for her bedroom, Carmen to hers. The Italian’s door clicked shut, and she sagged against it, heart pounding. Sliding onto the edge of her bed, she gripped the mattress for balance, face flaming.

Maybe this is what the American tiktoks Francine sends her mean when they refer to a ‘Gay Crisis’.

◇

Suspicious side-eye.

“You are so weird around Carmen.”

Chiara lifted her head from the café table, squinting at her best friend.

“You didn’t warn me that she was smoking fucking hot.”

Francine wrinkled her nose in disgust. “You know she’s my cousin, right?”

They were huddled in a local coffee shop overlooking the ocean, sweating out the last heat of summer. The air smelled of salt and espresso, and beachgoers drifted in and out through the glare of sunlight. This conversation had already happened three times today, but Chiara couldn’t stop spiraling. She threw her head back dramatically, groaning as the memory of their first meeting looped in her mind.

She’d said um too many times. 

Way too many.

Francine sipped her latte calmy, the hem of her dress swaying from a ocean-sweet breeze drafting in from a nearby open window. “You’re gonna have to figure out how to be in the same room as her without soaked panties, Chi.”

Chiara nearly choked on her drink. “Shut the fuckup. Oh my god.” 

Her cheeks burned hot, and she tried hiding them behind her frappuccino cup.

They were waiting on said Spanish woman. Somehow, after yesterday’s awkward introduction, Chiara had sworn to do better today—cool, friendly, good roommate. 

Nothing more. 

This morning had been an exercise in pretending she was fine—smiling through the campus tour, asking normal questions, acting like she wasn’t rattled by the curve of Carmen’s smile or the way she leaned in when she spoke. Being around her was like balancing on a tightrope strung over a canyon: one wrong move, and Chiara was sure she’d drop straight into something humiliating.

“She’s off-limits, anyway,” Francine said, propping her elbows on the table. “She doesn’t like to talk about soulmates, but last I heard, she met hers way back in secondary school. You should know who, actually.”

Chiara sipped her drink, pretending disinterest. “Who?”

“Antonio.”

The name hit her tongue warm and fragrant. “No? The fuck is that?”

Francine sighed. “You don’t pay attention to anything on campus, do you? He’s Gilbert’s teammate on the soccer team.”

Blank stare.

“He plays midfield.”

Still blank.

“The hot one.”

Chiara’s brow furrowed as she strained to remember—until the image clicked.

A mop of unruly brown curls. Sweat-slick abs peeking beneath a university jersey. Broad shoulders, dorky grin, green eyes too bright to ignore.

Antonio Fernández Carriedo.

“Shit, fuck. I know who you’re talking about.” Chiara dropped her face into her hands. Her ears glowed red.

Francine smirked. “Are you attracted to every brown-haired, green-eyed Spaniard you encounter? Is this how down bad you are?”

“Can it.” Chiara hissed, swatting her friend’s arm.

Before Francine could deliver another jab, a bright voice cut through the café.

“¡Hola!”

Chiara’s stomach dropped. Carmen jogged up to the table, curls bouncing, cheeks flushed from the heat. She was glowing again, like she carried the sun around with her. “You guys weren’t waiting long for me, sí?”

Francine’s grin sharpened. “Not at all! I got to spend some time terrorizing Chiara.”

Chiara nearly kicked her under the table.

Carmen laughed lightly, sliding into a chair. She leaned her elbows on the table, resting her chin in her hands, her eyes—God, those eyes—focused squarely on Chiara. “Oooh, about what?”

It wasn’t a casual look. It was too steady, too warm, like Carmen had been waiting all morning just to ask her that.

Chiara’s pulse spiked. She gripped her drink like it was armor. “We were just… talking about class schedules.” Her voice came out too quick, too thin.

Francine burst out laughing.

Carmen tilted her head, curls spilling over her cheek, lips curving into a smile Chiara swore was unfairly soft. The kind of smile that made her wonder if she’d said something funny or if Carmen just—looked at everyone like that.

Chiara’s skin prickled hot. She tried to focus on her straw, on the condensation beading down her cup, on literally anything but the Spanish woman staring at her like she was more interesting than the view of the ocean.

And Chiara, sweating under the heat of it, swore to herself she was going to keep her cool if it killed her.

◇

It took weeks, but as Chiara got to know more about the Spaniard, her embarrassment around the other woman began to wane.

Attraction, though… that was another matter entirely.

Her mannerisms were so absurdly endearing. The lilting rise and fall of her Spanish-tinged English, the way damp curls clung to the back of her neck after a shower, the glitter in her eyes whenever the evening light caught them. The way her whole body seemed to come alive when she spoke about home, about her childhood with Francine, arms gesturing wide as though the memories couldn’t be contained.

Chiara also realized the other woman was an idiot. 

A loveable, maddening idiot.

Carmen would get so absorbed in her phone she’d walk straight into doorframes, mutter a curse, and then carry on texting without missing a beat. 

Or she’d argue passionately about the best olive oil, only to forget she’d left the pan heating until the smoke alarm went off. 

The kind of idiocy that wasn’t careless, exactly—just… distractingly human. Infuriating. Charming. 

Impossible not to notice.

Supposedly Antonio and another friend of theirs had visited a few times while Chiara was in class, and somehow she always managed to miss them. A small, ridiculous disappointment tugged at her each time she found out after the fact.

But it was just as Francine had said. Carmen didn’t like to talk about soulmates.

The subject had come up over dinner one evening, Francine twirling her fork through a bowl of spaghetti, eyes sparkling with that dreamy look she always got when love came up.

“Do you know what I think about sometimes?” Francine said, voice light and airy. “The moment I first met Alice. I swear, it felt like something out of a movie—like the universe just stopped, just for us.”

Her whole face softened as she said it, and Chiara felt that familiar pang in her chest. 

Across the table, Carmen’s shoulders tensed. Her lips pressed together, hands folding neatly in her lap like she could will herself into silence.

“And you?” Francine turned, curious, her voice full of mischief. “What about you, Carmen? How was your first meeting with Antonio?”

Carmen froze. For a heartbeat, her gaze flicked—just barely—toward Chiara, and then away again.

“We're a bit private talking about that” she said at last, the words clipped, each one weighed before leaving her mouth.

Francine tilted her head, curiosity sparking.

Chiara jumped in before her friend could press. “God, Francine. Don’t tell me you’re gonna make her recite some fairytale story.” She rolled her eyes dramatically, feigning exasperation, even as her heart thudded hard enough to shake her ribs.

Francine huffed. “You’re impossible. One day, Chi, you’ll meet yours and you’ll stop pretending you don’t care.”

Chiara snorted into her glass of water, hoping the glass could hide the sudden flush creeping up her neck. 

Romantic? Of course she was. 

But the last thing she was going to do was let Carmen see that.

Across the table, Carmen went still. Her eyes widened for half a second—too quick for Chiara to notice, but not quick enough to escape Francine. The Spaniard’s fingers tightened where they rested on the table, then smoothed over the wood as if to erase the slip. Her smile returned, practiced and polite, but her shoulders hadn’t quite relaxed.

Francine tilted her head, curiosity sparking. Weird. Why’d she react like that?

Chiara, oblivious, was already rambling on about classes the following day— wanting to change the subject. But Carmen’s silence lingered, taut and charged, as though Francine had pressed on a bruise.

◇

It was late one evening, a little half past eleven. Both women had long since retired to their rooms. Fresh from the shower, Chiara tousled her damp hair up into a towel. A worn T-shirt hung loose off her frame, cotton brushing her thighs as she padded barefoot into the kitchen, humming softly to herself in search of a glass of water.

Oddly enough, the kitchen light glowed against the darkness of the apartment.

She paused when she heard the faintest clink of glass.

Rounding the corner, mid-yawn, she expected to see Francine raiding the fridge or Carmen making tea. Instead, she locked eyes with a stranger.

A very, very pretty stranger.

He was all warm tan skin and sharp lines, auburn hair falling straight to his nape save for one stubborn curl that refused to lie flat. His hazel eyes glimmered in the kitchen’s low light, flecked with green and gold, so striking and soulful she forgot for a moment how to breathe.

He froze mid-motion, knuckles tight around the rim of a glass. His chest rose sharply as though he’d been sucker-punched. Hazel eyes swept over her in a guilty rush—lingering on the towel knotted in her damp hair, the oversized T-shirt hanging off one shoulder, the flush still clinging to her shower-warmed skin—before darting back to her face. A flush bloomed across his cheekbones, deepening down the column of his throat. Even the tips of his ears went scarlet.

Chiara’s stomach twisted, heat rushing up her neck in answer. She suddenly felt far too aware of how casual she looked, hair frizzy beneath the towel, shirt clinging faintly at the collar. She tugged at the hem, desperate to make herself smaller, less obvious. Yet… there was something familiar about him. Not his features exactly—those were too sharp, too breathtaking to mistake—but the feeling. Her mind flickered back, unbidden, to a glimpse she once had: a little Italian boy, crying alone on a stormy beach. The sound of waves, the taste of salt air, the helpless ache in her chest. The memory smeared out, as they always did, before she could see his face. But the ache returned now, fresh and piercing.

She swallowed hard, forcing it down, and managed a polite, almost shy, “Hi.” Her voice was softer than she meant, betraying more than she wanted.

His reply came rough-edged, stuttering out like he’d had to drag it from his throat. “Ciao—uh. Hi.”

For a heartbeat, it felt like the whole apartment was holding its breath.

And then he was gone—setting the glass down with a faint clink, retreating down the dark hall in quick steps. A moment later, Carmen’s door clicked shut.

Chiara stood frozen, water forgotten, lips pressed together in thought. Curiosity prickled under her skin, twining with the flush in her cheeks.

She leaned against the counter, pretending it was nothing. The image of hazel eyes and flushed cheeks lingered. And she couldn’t quite shake the question: why had that very pretty man disappeared into Carmen’s bedroom in the middle of the night?

◇

The answer came a few days later in the bustling library at lunchtime. The three girls hunched over their schoolwork in a forgotten corner, sunlight spilling through oversized windows. Chiara perched her glasses on the edge of her nose, red pen in hand as she absentmindedly graded student papers. Chesnut curls framed her face as she pursed her lips in thought. It’s a wonder to her how some students made it into college in the first place.

Across from her, Francine doodled little hearts in her notebook. Carmen sat to her immediate right, curled over a textbook.

Chiara spoke without thinking, her tone casual, almost teasing. “Oh—Fran, I finally met that Lovino guy you keep mentioning. Ran into him in the kitchen the other night.” 

She paused, twirling her pen between her fingers, then added, “He’s got ridiculously pretty eyes. Too pretty, actually. Suspiciously pretty. Like… you don’t trust someone with eyes like that.”

Francine perked up, grinning. “Ah, so you’ve seen him at last. I told you he was handsome.”

Chiara smirked faintly. “Handsome, sure. But he stammered like I’d caught him robbing the fridge. Kind of ruined the effect.”

Francine laughed, delighted. “That sounds like him.”

Across the table, Carmen went still.

Chiara glanced up, eyebrow raised. “He disappeared into your room after. I didn’t realize he was your friend.” She said it innocently, her expression wide-eyed, like she was just putting pieces together.

The snap of a pencil breaking echoed too loud in their quiet corner.

Carmen’s hands trembled as she set the broken halves aside. Her face had gone crimson, eyes darting between them. “It’s—it’s not what you think.” Her voice came fast, almost desperate.

Chiara blinked, confused. “I wasn’t thinking anything?” she said, tilting her head, lips quirking in bemusement. The flush of the spaniard’s face was endearing beyond belief; an expression she hadn’t seen the woman make since they had first shared that embarrassing introduction.

Francine leaned forward, curiosity lighting her features. “Then what is it?”

Carmen’s mouth opened, shut, then opened again.

Her gaze flickered nervously toward Chiara—searching, almost pleading—before she blurted, “He’s my soulmate. Lovino is… mine too.”

The words dropped heavy, final, into the sunlight between them.

In a moment, the library felt as if it went hushed, holding the weight of her words in the silence.

Francine gasped, then clasped her hands together, eyes wide with delight. “Two soulmates! Carmen, that’s extraordinary. Mon dieu, like something out of a romance film.”

Chiara’s stomach gave an odd twist, though her smile didn’t falter. “Wow. That’s… wonderful, Carmen. Really.” She bent back over her papers, scrawling an unnecessary correction across the page, fighting the burn in her cheeks. 

Of course Carmen had two. And none of them were her.

Across the table, Carmen’s gaze lingered on her, soft and nervous, as though searching for something in Chiara’s expression. Francine noticed. Of course she noticed.

Later that night, Chiara lay sprawled across her bed, a half-finished essay draft open on her laptop and completely ignored. The scene in the library replayed against the inside of her eyelids no matter how many times she told herself to focus.

He’s my soulmate. Lovino is mine too.

Carmen’s voice, shaky but certain, echoed in her ears.

Chiara pressed the heels of her hands against her face until her glasses dug into her skin. “God, get a grip,” she muttered into the quiet. She wasn’t jealous. She wasn’t. She was happy for Carmen. Genuinely. Because who wouldn’t be thrilled to find two people written into their story?

And yet.

Her chest still ached with something sour and stupid. She’d smiled and congratulated Carmen, like any decent friend would, but the truth was, her stomach had twisted in knots. Like she’d been holding her breath and Carmen had knocked the air clean out of her.

Of course Carmen had two. Of course it wasn’t her.

Rolling onto her side, Chiara stared at the faint light spilling under the bedroom door, willing herself not to think about the way Carmen had looked at her after she’d said it—soft, nervous, searching. Like she’d been hoping to see something reflected back.

Chiara buried her face in the pillow with a groan. “Pathetic,” she hissed at herself, kicking one leg against the mattress. She wasn’t going to sit here daydreaming like some lovesick teenager. She wasn’t going to read into every nervous glance, every pink flush on Carmen’s cheeks.

But when she closed her eyes, the image bloomed anyway: Carmen’s face in the sunlight, lips parted, gaze lingering on her like a secret.

Chiara’s pulse skipped, and she swore under her breath.

She was being pathetic. 

Chapter Text

Chiara stepped into the apartment building with a hum on her lips, paper bag of groceries balanced against her hip. She shuffled into the elevator, lollipop perched lazily at the corner of her mouth, and used her free hand to adjust her braid in the door’s reflection.

She’d been busy today—very fucking busy.

Morning yoga with Maddie, tutoring a struggling student, and a gauntlet of errands that had dragged her from sunrise until now.

By the time she reached the front door, her shoulders slumped with relief. She smiled down at Madame Sofia, the new name she’d given to her old tomato plant, which had somehow decided to sprout a fresh bud in the pale autumn light.

Laughter resounded from inside the apartment. Chiara raised a brow. She thought Carmen and Francine had mentioned people coming over, but her memory blurred. 

It had been a long day.

Shrugging, she fumbled her keys and nudged the door open with her foot.

Her breath caught somewhere between her thrumming pulse and the butterflies in her stomach.

A wave crashed through her chest—familiarity, longing, belonging.

Three pairs of eyes snapped toward her.

Carmen’s laughter cut short, emerald gaze softening as though Chiara’s arrival pulled her gravity to the door. She sat on the floor, one leg tucked to her chest, a bottle of nail polish forgotten in her hand. Her body leaned forward instinctively, like she’d been waiting on Chiara to come home all day.

Antonio’s gaze followed, warm and unshakably steady. A soccer ball stilled under his foot, forgotten mid-pass to Gilbert. His grin spread slow and easy, dimples carving deep, but the light in his face was different now—brighter, as though the sun itself had swung through the door behind her.

Lovino’s head lifted last. Golden eyes caught hers for one too-long heartbeat before skittering away. His knuckles whitened around the book in his lap, grip so tight it bent the spine. Ears flushed crimson as he ducked down, gaze fixed fiercely on the blurred text.

The room’s chatter dulled to a hush in her ears. Sunlight pooled thick between them, air stretched taut.

Chiara swallowed hard around her lollipop, pulse hammering.

Don’t read into it. Don’t you dare fucking read into it.

Gilbert finally jolted upright, breaking the spell with his booming voice.

“Chi! You’re back!” He unfolded himself from the couch with a grin, silver hair glinting in the autumn light. “Took you long enough—we were starting to think you wouldn’t be home for dinner.”

Spell broken. She raised her eyebrows at the German, toeing off her sneakers. “Oh? And whose making dinner?”

The response was unanimous across the house. “You!”

She pursed her lips, expression caught somewhere between exasperation, and amusement, and carried the bags to the kitchen.

“We want Tagliatelle alla boscaiola!” A distinctly french voice spoke up. 

She barely had time to set them down before another voice brushed her ear.

“¡Hola! I’ve heard so much about you, Chiara.”

The words stopped her cold.

She turned, and golden honey met summer grass. Antonio’s eyes locked on hers, lit with a warmth that hit low in her chest.

Her brain short-circuited.

Wrinkled red T-shirt. Tan skin.

Unruly brown curls. Broad shoulders... Dimples.

Oh Jesus fuck.

“...Yo,” she managed, voice cracking embarrassingly low.

Antonio grinned, standing, and for the first time she saw the sheer size of him. Broader up close, towering, with an easy confidence that filled the room. “Every time I've come to visit, you’ve been out!”

Before she could blink, he swept her into a hug.

Chiara froze. 

His arms wrapped strong around her, scent of basil and something darker curling under her nose. Her thoughts spiraled: This is Carmen’s soulmate. Off-limits. Off-limits. Shit, shit, shit.

When he pulled back, amusement glittered in his gaze, like he could see every word that had just raced through her mind.

Chiara muttered something about groceries and spun back to the counter, pulling out bread and produce with unnecessary focus.

Francine hopped up beside her, smirk curling devilishly. “Nice hug.”

Chiara shot her a glare sharp enough to cut. “Shut it.”

Carmen appeared next, gentle hand brushing the small of Chiara’s back.

Her voice was soft. “I can help you put these away.” Emerald eyes caught hers and held. Chiara shivered, cheeks hot, fumbling for a can of tomatoes she didn’t need.

She shot Francine another glare anyway, for good measure.

The chatter swelled again around her.

Warm. Easy. Domestic. 

Lovino had slid closer, leaning against the counter with studied nonchalance. His fingers curled around the neck of the wine she’d brought home, thumb brushing the label. “...You’re from Naples?”

Chiara and Francine answered together: “Yup.”

Lovino nodded once. His gaze flickered toward her but never landed, ears still red as he twisted the bottle idly in his hands.

Chiara shoved the last of the produce into the fridge, then slipped into her room to change. When she returned in soft sweatpants, the kitchen was buzzing. Francine had spread ingredients across the counter, eyes alight.

“Chiara,” she declared, dramatically, hands busying her hair into a high ponytail. “It’s time I learned how to make it with you.”

Chiara rolled her eyes but hopped onto the counter anyway, ankles crossed. “Yeah, about time, dummy.” Carmen scooted closer to explain the dish to Antonio, their elbows almost touching. Lovino muttered something about “too many cooks in the kitchen” but shuffled into the barstool anyway.

Chiara inspected the onion in her hand, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. When she glanced up, Antonio wasn’t looking at Carmen. He was watching her.

She froze, heat flared in her cheeks. Antonio’s smile was easy, teasing, like he’d been caught red-handed in a crime. Then he turned back to Carmen as though nothing had happened.

What the fuck.

Across the kitchen, Francine’s lilac eyes flicked between them—and to Carmen’s not-so-subtle glances. 

◇

Lovino and Antonio became commonplace in their household.

At first, Chiara had bristled at how often they were around — their laughter in the living room, their voices drifting down the hall, the scrape of extra chairs pulled up at the table. But days blurred into weeks, and soon she found herself expecting them. Antonio humming off-key while he chopped vegetables. Lovino muttering curses at the stove while Carmen teased him over his knife skills.

The apartment filled with the spice of Spanish saffron, French herbs, Italian garlic and oil — an ever-shifting collage of their cultures simmering together. Meals stretched long into evenings, the five of them leaning back in their chairs with wineglasses and half-finished stories.

Chiara got used to the sight of their eyes in lamplight. Carmen’s emeralds glinting soft with mischief, Antonio’s golden-brown sparking warm, Lovino’s hazel catching fire in rare moments of laughter. Beautiful, all of them, dazzling in ways she swore she’d take to her grave. Deep in her heart, she promised she’d never tell a soul.

They had a way of pulling her in. What started as invitations to join them for dinner or cards grew into study sessions sprawled on the living room floor, movie marathons with too many blankets, spur-of-the-moment trips to the café down the street. She found herself laughing more than she had in years, her sharp edges dulled by their relentless warmth.

Under their attention, Chiara bloomed — even as she tried to pretend she wasn’t.

It didn’t take long before their routines bled into each other completely. One week it was late-night study sessions, the next it was Antonio convincing them all to cook an absurdly oversized paella, or Carmen dragging everyone to a poetry reading none of them understood but clapped through anyway.

Which is how Chiara found herself crouched behind the couch one Thursday evening, tape in her teeth, hands sticky with balloon ribbon — plotting with the others like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Gilbert’s birthday was January 18th. And apparently, that meant chaos.

The plan was simple. Hide everything where Gilbert wouldn’t think to look, then ambush him the second he walked through the door.

The execution, of course, was chaos.

◇

Chiara nearly tripped over Antonio’s arm as he stuffed a bag of balloons behind the couch cushions. “Are you serious?” she hissed. “He’s going to see that the second he sits—”

“Not if you distract him,” Antonio grinned. His eyes glittered with mischief. “You’re good at that.”

Chiara’s cheeks burned. She snapped the roll of tape in her hands louder than necessary. “Shut up.”

Carmen, perched on the counter, was busy tucking wrapped boxes into a cereal cupboard. She looked far too pleased with herself. “He never checks the pantry,” she whispered, hair falling into her face as she leaned down to wedge another gift behind the cornflakes.

Lovino, meanwhile, had claimed the barstool with a scowl, balloon pump in hand. “This is ridiculous. Why the hell are we blowing up twenty balloons if half of them are just going to pop?” Still, he tied the knot of another balloon and set it aside.

Francine rolled her eyes, laughing as she balanced a precarious stack of beer bottles in a grocery bag. “Because, Lovi, it’s a party. Do you know what that is?”

The apartment was a battlefield of crumpled wrapping paper, stray ribbons, and the faint squeak of balloons. By the time the door knocked, everyone froze in place.

Gilbert tried the door knob, humming tunelessly as he stepped in, only to stop dead at the sight of five guilty faces staring back at him.

“…Guys?”

“Surprise!” Francine and Antonio shouted at once, tossing confetti in his direction. Carmen’s laughter spilled out after them, bright and unrestrained.

Gilbert blinked at the balloons, at the bottle of brandy Chiara hadn’t had time to hide, at Lovino’s scowl and shaking head. Then he grinned, wide and wolfish. “You sneaky bastards.”

They dragged him into the kitchen, where cake and drinks waited.

And in the soft chaos that followed — laughter echoing, glasses clinking, candles flickering — Chiara found herself laughing so hard her stomach hurt. Antonio leaned too close when he handed her a plate, Carmen brushed flour from her cheek, Lovino muttered about “loud idiots” but stayed pressed close enough to pass her the knife.

Domestic. Warm. A little reckless.

The night bled long past midnight, wine bottles emptied and cake crumbs forgotten on the counter. Their laughter softened to murmurs, then yawns, and one by one the celebration unraveled into drowsy goodnights.

By the time the apartment went still, Chiara had collapsed into her own bed, the echoes of their voices still warm in her chest.

It was the kind of night that left the air heavy with contentment — and the bed crowded when three people tried to cram themselves into one bed.

◇

Which was how, at half past six the next morning, Lovino found himself exiled to the living room, nursing a coffee in the dim light with a scowl that did little to hide his exhaustion.

Only the faint sputter of the coffeemaker broke the silence.

Lovino stood at the counter, hoodie hanging loose, hair sticking up in soft auburn tufts that refused to behave. Shadows carved hollows under his hazel eyes. He rubbed at his temple with one hand while the other gripped his mug like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

Chiara’s door creaked open. She blinked against the dim kitchen light, braid mussed from sleep, sweater slipping off one shoulder. The sharp scent of espresso curled through the air, pulling her nose like a leash.

“...It’s six-thirty,” she rasped, padding in on bare feet. “Who the hell is making coffee at—?”

Lovino scowled at the mug in his hand. “The other two hogged the whole bed,” he grumbled. “Couch was the only option.”

Her lips twitched, arms folding across her chest. “Sucks for you, huh.” The words came out half-tease, half-sympathy.

He glared half-heartedly, but the slump in his shoulders gave him away.

With a sigh, she vanished into her room. He frowned into his cup, not even thinking about it until she returned — arms full of a folded comforter and pillow.

Before he could react, she dumped them unceremoniously onto the couch.

“...Huh?” He blinked, genuinely clueless.

“Don’t make it weird,” Chiara muttered, cheeks pink. “You looked pathetic. Just—sleep before you fall over and break something.”

For the first time since they had met eyes, he forced himself to look at her fully.

And it undid him.

Golden lamplight softened her freckles, caught in the strands of her mussed hair, shimmered against the curve of her lips. Her hazel eyes met his, sharp but warm, and he felt his throat tighten. She wasn’t teasing him now. She was seeing him, in the same way the world had burst into color when he’d first laid eyes on her.

Heat rushed up his neck. His voice came quiet, rare and unguarded. “...Grazie.”

Her eyes widened briefly at the softness, but she didn’t push. Just shrugged like it was nothing, though her ears betrayed her with pink.

With a tired grunt, he padded back over to the couch and set the mug on the table — half-full, completely forgotten. The bitterness didn’t matter anymore. 

Not when the promise of warmth sat right there, smelling faintly of clean linen and Chiara.

Slowly, almost cautiously, he tugged the comforter over himself. The moment he laid down, tension bled out of his body. The scent was everywhere, soft and grounding, and he felt his chest loosen for the first time in days.

His lashes fluttered shut, lips parting on a quiet breath. Within minutes, his breathing evened into sleep.

Chiara lingered, arms wrapped around herself, eyes drinking in the softened lines of his face. No scowl, no sharp edges — just peaceful. Cute, her mind supplied traitorously. Heat rushed to her cheeks.

She tore her gaze away, returning back to her room. By the time she left for class, he was still asleep — curled into her comforter, cheek pressed against her pillow, as though he belonged there.

◇

The bedroom door creaked open around eight. Antonio padded out first, hair sticking up in every direction, tugging a T-shirt down over his chest. Carmen followed, curls mussed from sleep, sweater slipping off one shoulder. They both looked warm and drowsy, like people who’d been tangled in too many blankets.

Neither expected to find Lovino on the couch.

But there he was — curled beneath Chiara’s comforter, cheek pillowed against Chiara’s cushion, still faintly smelling of lavender and citrus.

Antonio froze mid-step, blinking in surprise. Carmen stopped short beside him, green eyes widening.

Lovino shifted under the weight of their stares but he remained firmly asleep.

Carmen’s lips parted, but no words came. Antonio coughed into his hand, dimples threatening to betray him.

Before either could speak, Francine padded out of her room, yawning as she rubbed her eyes. She froze at the sight, then grinned like the cat who’d found a treat.

Francine’s lilac eyes went wide, then glittered with mischief. “...Mon dieu. Look at you.”

Lovino startled awake, blinking blearily. Then he realized who they were staring at. His entire face went red.

“She—she gave it to me!” he blurted, ears blazing. “I was on the couch and she—she just dumped it on me, that’s all. Nothing else!”

Carmen bit her lip, hiding a smile. Antonio coughed into his fist, dimples threatening to show.

Francine, of course, was merciless. “You’re blushing, mon cher. How adorable.” She leaned closer, grin wicked. “Where’s Chi, hm?”

“She already went to class,” Lovino muttered, clutching the comforter tighter around himself. His glare at the Spaniards could have cut glass.

Francine snickered, delighted. “Oh, she missed this. I should take a picture.”

“Don’t you dare—” Lovino growled.

Chapter Text

The apartment was unusually quiet. Carmen had gone out, Francine was still at study group, and for once, Chiara had her room to herself.

She sat cross-legged at her desk, red pen in hand, statistics textbook reading like hierglyphs. Quiet humming slipped past her lips — off-key but soft — as she reviewed through her notes. A strand of hair escaped her braid and tickled her cheek, and she pushed it back absently.

She almost didn’t hear the knock.

Antonio’s voice was warm. “Chi, let’s play!”

She tipped her head back with a sigh. “I’m doing homework, bastard.”

The door cracked open. Antonio leaned against the frame, grin already plastered across his face. From the distance, she could hear Lovino clinking around in the kitchen. 

“Let’s hang out!”

Chiara rolled her eyes. “I’m working.”

That was apparently not an answer, because Antonio slipped in anyway, flopping across her bed like he deserved to be there. Stuffed animal propped under his head, he grinned boyishly up at the young woman.

Lovino followed slower, a bowl of cut fruit in hand. He hands her the bowl before claiming the chair in the corner.

Chiara huffs in feigned exasperation before twisting back towards her desk. “I can’t with you two. Just don’t be loud.”

For a few minutes, they were quiet, the only sound her pen on paper. But she could feel their eyes on her room — cataloguing, curious.

Her room was small but lived-in, cozy in a way that felt undeniably hers. The walls were painted in soft beige, but the space was warmed with accents of deep reds and browns — a woven throw draped across the foot of the bed, a patterned rug worn in the middle from pacing.

Her desk was cluttered in a charming way: textbooks stacked unevenly, a half-burned candle smelling faintly of vanilla, pens scattered across a notepad where she’d scribbled lists and doodles in the margins. Above it, polaroids and snapshots were pinned haphazardly to a corkboard — friends laughing, her younger sister grinning with messy braids, a blurry photo of a market stall in Rome.

On the dresser sat a collection of small trinkets: a chipped mug holding bracelets and hair ties, a tiny porcelain fairy statue frozen mid-flight, a soccer ball no bigger than her palm, and a smooth sandollar painted with little stars. A skateboard leaned half-hidden in the closet, its wheels peeking out from the cracked door.

The bed itself was piled with mismatched pillows, one patterned, one plain, one clearly stolen from the couch. It smelled faintly of detergent and her shampoo, grounding and familiar.

Antonio’s voice broke the silence first. “So… who’s this?” He pointed to a polaroid pinned to her corkboard on the far wall.

Chiara glanced up. “My sister, Felicia. And her fiance.”

It was a photograph of the young woman, freshly graduated from highschool 2 years ago. Her black graduation robes twirled around her while she beamed at the camera. A laurel crown planted atop her head, warm brown hair tumbled like a waterfall down her back.  Beside her, a very awkward Ludwig stood, holding a bouquet of flowers meant for her. Chiara had taken the photo, the only one photo of the German she’d ever allow in her house. Only because Felicia looked that beautiful.

“Younger sister or older sister?”

“Younger.” Chiara answered coolly. 

Antonio hummed, filing that information away. “And these?” he leaned over to the next row of pictures, utterly shameless.

“Friends from boarding school,” Chiara tapped her pen against her lips. “Bad fashion choices included. Stare too long and you’ll go blind.”

They both grinned at the warning. In one of the photos, francine and Chiara posed in a classroom. Hair pulled back in that distinctive ‘Boarding school girls ponytail’ style, they both pursed their lips and sported peace signs. 

Poorly tie-dyed t-shirts hung off their shoulders, followed by pleated skirts. A trend that was popular a little over 5 years ago.

“Cute..” Lovino uttered to himself.

Still scanning across the room, Lovino’s voice slipped out low and casual. “What about this statue?”

Chiara froze, her ears going hot. His gaze had landed on the laughing porcelain fairy perched atop her dresser right next to him, wings suspended mid-flight. He traced the curve around the wings with a index finger. Beside the fairy sat a lone sand-dollar, time worn and a remnant of her childhood; when she would collect items that reminded her of her soulmates.

Memories of a particular giggly fairy playing amongst rows of wheat overcame her senses. She flushed deeply.

“What, that? Yeah. Just sentimental junk. Be careful, it’s fragile”

Her blush lingered, no matter how hard she tried to bury it. Both men caught it— Antonio feels more questions bubble to the surface.He’s nosy in the way of someone who wants to memorize every detail of her life. Lovino is quieter but his gaze lingers. He processes in silence, hungry to understand but too scared to admit he wants to know more

Antonio rolled onto his stomach, chin propped on his hands as he peered at another photo. This one of Chiara’s dance recitals as a child— Papa and Nonno stood on either side of her, swinging her around as she beamed with glee, pink tutu suspended in mid-air. “...And your mom?”

Her mouth pressed into a line. She didn’t answer right away, conflicting emotions crossing her face. Finally, she spoke calmly, voice tighter underneath.

“Stepmom. And we don’t really talk.”

Antonio’s eyes flicked toward Lovino, and in that moment a rare silence stretched between them — both men sitting with the weight of her words. No teasing. No prodding. Just understanding.

Chiara, uncomfortable with the quiet, huffed and waved her hand at them. “Don’t look at me like that. We’re just not close, alright?”

In the distance, the front door opened and with it, Carmen’s voice carried. “I’m home!”

Moments later, she appeared in the doorway of the Itailan’s room — paused at the sight of Antonio stretched across the bed, Lovino tucked in the corner, and Chiara, flustered and bent over her homework.

“Well, well, well” Carmen started. “Didn’t know you two had moved in here.”

Chiara rolled her eyes, cheeks warm but relieved to see the woman. “They’re distracting me. You can take them away if you want.”

Carmen waves her off, choosing to cross the room to steal a kiss from Lovino. She pauses, eyes catching on the fairy statue perched on the dresser. “This is cute! I love fairies! Where’d you get it?”

Chiara is flustered again. “It’s just old. I’ve had it forever.” Her voice cracked slightly, and the three of them exchanged a quick glance. 

Endearing, confusing — Carmen examines the statue, taking the subject further where the boys didn’t. The statue clearly meant a lot to the Italian. The figurine was small enough to fit in the palm of her hand, yet delicate in a way that demanded careful handling. The body of the fairy was sculpted from pale porcelain, her face soft and indistinct, but her posture caught mid-dance — one foot poised on tiptoe, arms arched gracefully above her head. Her dress was painted in faint washes of rose and cream, the glaze worn smooth from years of touch.

But it was the wings that made the piece remarkable. Thin panes of colored glass — amber, green, and a blush of pink — had been soldered with fine veins of bronze, catching even the dimmest lamplight. They shimmered faintly when Carmen tilted the figure, fragile as dragonfly wings. A single crack ran through the edge of one pane, nearly invisible, a testament to how long Chiara had kept it.

It wasn’t expensive or pristine — not the sort of trinket you’d buy on display — but it was clearly cherished. The kind of thing you keep close, not because of its beauty, but because of what it means.

For Carmen, Antonio, and Lovino, there was no question anymore. She was theirs. The last piece of a puzzle they hadn’t even known was incomplete until she’d walked through the door. They would spend their lives with her — that certainty burned in their bones — and yet every day she looked at them with bright, oblivious eyes, none the wiser.

Why had it been so easy to find each other, yet so impossible for her? Carmen’s wrist still itched where her countdown had once burned, now blank as parchment. Antonio could feel that deep, familiar pull every time she smiled, like warmth blooming in his chest. Lovino saw her in colors sharper than the world itself, dazzling enough to make him ache. And still… she didn’t see.

They’d had late-night talks, whispered arguments, about how to tell her. How to bridge the gap. But their resolve always broke before her smart mouth, her auburn curls tumbling over her shoulder, the spark in her hazel eyes when she teased them. She was so sweet it was unbearable.

And so they endured it — this aching closeness, this restraint that felt like self-destruction. They’d never had to hold back with one another before. Now, every laugh, every brush of her hand, every blush they caught and couldn’t name — it all felt like a temptation they weren’t allowed to touch.

It was a cruel kind of longing. Home, right there in front of them — and yet out of reach.

For the three of them, her reaction to the figurine was impossible to miss. Chiara flustered easily — at jokes, at teasing — but not at a trinket? That wasn’t normal. Which meant it wasn’t just a trinket. 

Carmen’s gaze lingered on her, unease pressing sharp against her ribs; she couldn’t shake the feeling that the fairy was connected, somehow, even if she couldn’t say why. Antonio’s grin faded, his chest tightening at the thought that maybe this statue tied back to whatever strange thread bound them all together — and that Chiara knew more than she let on. Lovino’s scowl deepened, masking the sudden thrum in his pulse. If she was hiding something, why? Why hadn’t she said anything? The thought twisted bitter, unfair. 

Between them, the question settled heavy in the air, unspoken but certain: this little porcelain figure was a clue — maybe to her, maybe to them — but Chiara wasn’t ready to share it.

Choosing to drop the subject, Carmen instead pulled up a chair beside the Italian, leaning against her over the stats textbook. “What are we studying, hmmm?”

Chiara’s blush lingered as she explained the topic at hand she was studying. 

The room settled around her— Antonio sprawled across her blanket, Lovino slouched but watching, Carmen close at her elbow. Their voices mingled with her own, laughter and teasing spilling into the lamplight.

She didn’t notice the way the air shifted warmer. The way Antonio’s smile softened when she muttered an answer. The way Lovino’s gaze lingered, steady, before he turned his face aside. The way Carmen leaned closer than necessary, her hand brushing hers.

Chapter Text

It’s a few weeks later, one quiet evening when everyone is gone for the weekend. Chiara sits criss-cross in the middle of her bedroom. She tugged at a stack of sweaters wedged into the back of her closet, muttering under her breath about finally organizing her life, when something heavy rolled free and thudded against her foot.

The skateboard.

Its grip tape was scuffed, wheels nicked, stickers half-peeled at the edges. She crouched, fingers brushing the rough surface, and a familiar ache bloomed in her chest. Midnight streets. Asphalt. The wild rush of air down her throat as she sped downhill, heart hammering, free in a way she hadn’t been since she was a schoolgirl.

It had been years. She shoved it away when she started university — when life became lectures, tutoring shifts, being “responsible.” Still, a part of her missed it, missed the feeling of flying.

Chiara shook her head quickly, sliding the board back into the shadows. If Carmen or Antonio or Lovino ever found out she’d been a closet skater girl? She’d never hear the end of it. She could already imagine their teasing: Antonio begging for a demo, Carmen calling her reckless, Lovino muttering “idiot” under his breath. 

Mortifying.

She dusted her hands off and shut the closet door with finality, though the itch of nostalgia clung stubbornly.

A week later, she had no excuse left to avoid Antonio’s endless pestering. Which was how she found herself wedged into a noisy stadium with Francine on one side, Carmen and Lovino on the other, while Antonio stood confidently on the field below in full uniform.

The crowd was a living thing: stomping feet, clapping hands, chants rolling like waves. Flags blurred in the air, voices hoarse with devotion. Chiara pressed her hoodie tighter around herself, marveling in the stadium lights and the fog on her breath. But then the whistle blew, and Antonio was off.

He cut across the field with impossible ease, curls bouncing, grin bright even under the harsh floodlights. And suddenly she wasn’t in her seat anymore — she was somewhere else, some other time.

It was freshman year. She had been hunched over a library desk, furiously typing away at her laptop when the world had smeared. The scratch of her notes had vanished, replaced by the roar of a crowd. She remembered the echo of bleachers beneath her, the floodlights too bright, a Spaniard on the pitch below, his face blurred into strokes of warm paint. But she had known it was him — the way he laughed when the crowd called his name, though it slipped from her memory the moment she blinked back into herself.

She remembered, too, the Spanish girl in the stands. Laughing. Cheering. Smudged and vibrant.

And now — here he was. Real. 

Antonio Fernández Carriedo, grinning with that same unstoppable brightness as he drove the ball down the field.

Chiara’s breath caught. Her lips parted, eyes wide, stunned into stillness. For one reckless heartbeat, the thought bloomed unbidden: what if it’s them?

Antonio’s easy smile, brighter than the stadium lights. Lovino’s eyes, sharp and golden, softening when he thought she wasn’t looking. The crinkle of Carmen’s nose when she laughed, emerald eyes catching hers across the room. They felt like hers — in the marrow-deep way her soulmates were supposed to feel.

God, she wanted it. Wanted it so badly it hollowed her out. To believe that it was them, that fate hadn’t just been cruel with its glimpses. To believe that she belonged right here — in their arms, in their laughter, in this impossible warmth.

But no.

If it were them, they would have known her already. Would have gathered her close, whispered her name like a vow. They would have claimed her as theres, the way soulmates always did.

And so she shoved it down. That inkling of hope, that dangerous craving, pressed into the deepest corner of her chest where it couldn’t betray her. Because admitting it — even to herself — felt like betraying the ones who were truly hers, the three faceless figures still waiting for her somewhere out there.

She dragged her gaze back to the field, forcing herself to breathe. Pretend it’s just attraction, just coincidence, just three people who aren’t yours. Pretend, pretend, pretend.

Her expression wasn’t lost. Carmen’s cheer faltered, heart squeezing at the sight of Chiara’s dawning realization. Lovino’s jaw tightened, knuckles white around the railing. From the pitch, Antonio looked up into the stands, found her gaze, and his grin widened as if he’d just scored the winning goal.

The whistle blew, the crowd erupted, and Chiara clapped with the others, too loud, too sharp, like she could drown out the dangerous thoughts still pulsing in her chest.

Carmen was the first to turn, face bright with pride. “He played well, didn’t he?” Her voice was soft, but her eyes were sharper, searching Chiara’s face.

Chiara forced a smirk. “I mean, if running around in circles counts as talent…”

Carmen swatted her arm, laughing, though the sound didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Lovino didn’t laugh. He was still tense at her side, jaw set, cheeks alight. He muttered something too low for her to catch before shoving his hands into his pockets.

Chiara blinked at him. “What, no snarky commentary? Don’t tell me you’re impressed too.”

He cut her a sideways glance, hazel eyes flicking over her face before darting away again, ears tinged red. “Tch. I’m not; he plays too flashily.”

Antonio bounded toward the stands, sweat-soaked and grinning wide, arms raised in victory. His teammates clapped him on the back, but his gaze kept darting upward, searching until it landed on her again. His grin somehow widened, dimples deep, as if her being there mattered more than the whole stadium’s applause.

Chiara’s stomach twisted. She turned quickly, tugging Francine by the wrist. “C’mon. If we don’t leave now, we’ll be stuck in the stampede.”

Francine laughed, trailing after her, but not before she clocked the quick flickers of expression: Carmen’s forced ease, Lovino’s sharp glare, Antonio’s glowing smile aimed straight at Chiara’s retreating back.

The five of them filed down the crowded sidewalk, voices and horns filling the night. Antonio’s fingers fit easily inbetween Carmen’s as he recounted a play, his voice booming, his grin unstoppable. Chiara kept her gaze fixed ahead, hands shoved in her jacket pockets, heart still rattling like loose coins.

Carmen nudged her. “You were quiet during the second half.”

Chiara snorted, sharp to cover the truth. “I was bored out of my mind. Sorry to break it to you, but sports aren’t really my thing.”

Antonio glanced at her then, eyes bright even under the dim streetlamps. “Yet you still came. That means a lot to me.”

Heat licked her cheeks. She rolled her eyes, too fast. “Yeah, it means I got bribed with nachos.”

He laughed, but Lovino muttered something under his breath — sharp, defensive — that made Carmen elbow him in the ribs, wide-eyed.

Chiara didn’t ask. She didn’t want to know.

Back in her room, she collapsed face-first into her bed, burying her face in the pillow. The image of Antonio’s smile lingered, bright as floodlights. Carmen’s laughter, soft and piercing. Lovino’s eyes, molten gold in the stadium glow.

They felt like hers.

Her chest ached with it, so badly she wanted to scream.

◇

The apartment was quiet but not silent.

Chiara lay tangled in her sheets, heavy with the bone-deep exhaustion of the day, the window cracked just enough to let in the hum of the city. The passing of headlights on the road illuminated her room for an instant. She was already halfway to dreams when voices drifted down the hall, muffled but distinct enough to register.

“…Chiara…”

Her name caught her ear. She blinked groggily, forcing her eyes open in the dark.

The voices were low, urgent. Carmen’s soft and insistent. Antonio’s warmer, louder. Lovino’s sharper, like a knife being sheathed and unsheathed. Francine’s seemingly shocked.

She strained, catching fragments between the hum of the refrigerator and the cityscape noises.

“…not fair to her…”
“…she doesn’t know…”
“…soulmate…”

Her heart kicked once against her ribs — startled — but the rest of her was so heavy. She wanted to sit up, wanted to press her ear against the door, but the pull of sleep was too strong. The words blurred together, spilling into nonsense as she drifted under.

◇

The morning after, she woke up like any other day. She dragged herself upright with a groan, rubbing her face.

The night before was already dissolving — little scraps of memory she couldn’t quite pin down. Her name, spoken low. The word soulmate. Or had she dreamed that?

She padded into the kitchen, yawning. Carmen was already there, making coffee. Antonio leaned against the counter, talking too easily. Lovino was slouched at the table with a scowl, Francine perched beside him.

They all looked up when she walked in. Just for a beat too long.

Chiara blinked at them, brow furrowing faintly. Something itched at the back of her mind, a half-formed memory. They know something I don’t.

She shook it off, reaching for a mug with a crooked grin. “Morning, weirdos.”

But the feeling lingered, stubborn as a bruise: a sense that the air had shifted, that she’d missed something important — something about her.

Chapter Text

It was weeks later. The living room was steeped in a hazy comfort — fairy lights glowing faint against lamplight, music low, the rich warmth of wine threading through her veins.

Chiara sat cross-legged on the floor before the coffee table, glasses slipping down her nose, laptop glowing faint in the dim. Her oversized sweater swallowed her frame, sleeves tugged down over her fingers as she typed.

It should have been nothing special. Just another evening with them. But her chest was tight.

Because since that night at the stadium, she hadn’t been able to shake it. The way Antonio’s grin lit under the floodlights, the way Carmen’s laughter had wrapped around her like sunlight, the way Lovino’s golden eyes burned at her from the stands. They felt like hers — like home, like the marrow-deep belonging she’d been promised all her life.

And yet… they weren’t.

If they were her soulmates, they would have known her already. Would have gathered her into their arms without hesitation. Would have claimed her, the way every story said soulmates did. Instead, she was just their friend. Their roommate. Off-limits.

The guilt pressed hard. She felt like she was cheating on the faceless figures she’d glimpsed all her life, abandoning them by even wanting these three in front of her. It was selfish. Wrong. Unfair. And still, the ache of craving sat stubborn in her chest, like a bruise she couldn’t stop pressing.

She forced her gaze down to her laptop, swallowing against the heaviness. 

Pretend. Pretend. Pretend.

“Chiara,” Carmen’s voice came soft, tugging her out of her spiraling thoughts.

Her head snapped up, heart lurching. Emerald eyes caught hers, too intent, too knowing. Antonio leaned forward now, warmth tempered into focus. Even Lovino’s scowl seemed fragile, his gaze sharp but uncertain.

Her pulse quickened. They were looking at her like they knew.

“What’s with the faces?” she tried to joke, but her voice came out thinner than she meant.

Carmen hesitated. “There’s something important we need to tell you.”

Her heart slammed against her ribs. For one dizzying moment, hope rose again — dangerous, reckless. This is it. They’re going to say it. They’re mine.

And then her phone rang.

The shrill vibration cut straight through the quiet, rattling against the table. She glanced down, hand already reaching to silence it — and froze.

The caller ID lit the screen, stark and impossible to ignore.

Her stomach dropped.

Carmen’s words cut off. Antonio’s brows drew together. Lovino muttered a curse.

Chiara stared at the screen, throat locked tight. For a heartbeat she thought she might actually choke on her own pulse.

Chiara lifted the phone to her ear, tension already crawling up her neck.
“Ciao, Mama,” she said, trying for evenness.

It lasted two seconds.

Her mother’s voice barreled through the speaker, sharp and commanding. No greeting, no warmth — just instructions. She and Felicia were in town, and Chiara would take them out to dinner. Tonight. No excuses.

Chiara’s jaw locked. Her free hand curled into a fist against her knee. She muttered a clipped “Of course,” each word pulled like a tooth, because she knew better than to argue. That old ache of obedience, of being the “good girl,” dug its claws in deep.

“Bene,” her mother said briskly, and hung up without so much as a goodbye.

Chiara lowered the phone, eyes dilated, lips pressed into a thin line. Her pulse thrummed in her ears.

The others were still watching her.

She forced a grimace into something that might pass as a smile. “So. My mom and sister decided to drop into Barcelona for some god-awful reason. And now apparently I have to take them to dinner.”

Her voice tried for breezy, but her shoulders betrayed her — stiff, high, her knuckles white against the phone.

Antonio shifted where he sat, unease flickering across his face. He could feel the frustration rolling off her in waves, thick and raw. Carmen’s brow furrowed, worry softening her emerald eyes. Lovino muttered a curse under his breath, glare dark as though he could burn the offending caller ID out of existence.

Chiara exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “Anyway, sorry for the interruption. Whatever you guys were about to say, just—”

Antonio cut in gently, smile pained. “It’s not a big deal. We’ll tell you later.”

Something twisted in her chest. Later. Always later.

◇

She escaped to her room, the door clicking shut behind her. Her hands shook as she yanked open her closet, pulling out the one dress she hadn’t worn in years. She slipped it on, muttering curses under her breath as she shoved her feet into heels.

Chiara pinned the last loose strand of hair into place, perfume mist settling faint across her collarbone. The woman staring back at her in the mirror looked like she belonged on the arm of someone important — long, curvy in the wine-red dress, heels elongating her legs, makeup neat and understated.

She caught her reflection and nearly laughed.

She looked stunning — but it wasn’t for her. It never was.

It was for her mother.

The dress, the bun, the thin veil of mascara and gloss — all of it was armor. A role she knew how to play: the dutiful daughter, polished and pleasing, so she could get through the night without being torn apart. She’d learned long ago that looking the part was half the battle. If she looked perfect, maybe her mother would find less to criticize. Maybe she’d survive the evening intact.

Chiara adjusted her earring, forcing a smile at her reflection — brittle, hollow. The girl in the mirror looked confident, radiant even. But beneath the surface, her stomach twisted, sour and restless.

Back in the living room, the three of them sat in silence, sulking. Carmen chewed her lip raw. Antonio had lost his grin entirely, restless hands tugging at the hem of his shirt. Lovino slouched so deep into his chair it looked like he might disappear, scowl carved sharp across his face.

They’d been so close.

The door creaked and Francine padded in, eyebrows rising at the sight of the trio. “What’s with the funeral faces?” she teased.

None of them answered right away. She stopped, gaze flicking toward Chiara’s closed door. Her tone softened. “...What happened?”

Carmen sighed. “Her mother called.”

That explained it. Francine’s lips pressed into a thin line.

Back in her room, Chiara’s phone buzzed again. A message from her sister lit the screen, full of exclamation marks and emojis.

“Can’t wait to see you! Mama says you’ll take us somewhere nice 🥰”

Before she could second-guess herself, she called the restaurant, voice tight but polite. By some miracle, they had a last-minute table for three. She thanked them quickly and hung up, staring at the phone like it had personally offended her.

Chiara’s grip on the phone tightened until her knuckles hurt. The irritation curled hot in her gut, but her thumbs still moved automatically, obedient. She opened the chat with her mom. 

“We’ll go to Trattoria del Mare. Downtown. I got us a reservation for 8:00.”

She slipped the phone down into her pursue, forcing a breath through her teeth.

Tonight, she’d play the good daughter. Again.

The door to Chiara’s room creaked open, and the apartment stilled.

She stepped out carefully, heels clicking softly against the wood. The wine-red dress hugged her frame, her hair pinned into a messy but elegant bun that made her freckles stand out against the delicate sweep of makeup. A faint trace of perfume — lavender and citrus — lingered in the air as she adjusted the strap at her shoulder.

But she felt none of it.

Chiara tugged at her hem like it was a leash, jaw tight, expression brittle. She knew how good she looked — she wasn’t blind — but it didn’t belong to her. Not tonight. Her reflection in the mirror had been a stranger.

Across the living room, three pairs of eyes couldn’t look away.

Antonio’s usual grin faltered, dimples swallowed by something quieter, reverent. He’d seen her laugh herself breathless, hair unbrushed in hoodies, but this? It stunned him still. And yet his chest ached, because he could feel it: the disconnect, the way she wouldn’t believe a word if he spent lifetimes telling her how breathtaking she is.

Carmen’s lips parted, emerald eyes wide, drinking her in with a softness that bordered on painful. She wanted to call Chiara beautiful, wanted to cross the room and kiss her hand — but she saw the tightness in her shoulders, the wariness in her eyes. This wasn’t the kind of beauty Chiara wore proudly.

Lovino froze outright. His gaze caught on her and stuck, hazel eyes dark and unguarded for once. Gorgeous, was the word clawing through his throat, but his heart thudded heavy because she looked like she might shatter. He forced his eyes away, scowl returning like armor of his own.

Francine broke the silence with a low whistle. “Mon dieu.”

Chiara rolled her eyes, trying for breezy, cool, the charming roommate. “Don’t start.” 

But her voice cracked on the edges, thinner than she wanted, and her hands shook as she adjusted her earring.

Antonio recovered first, voice softer than usual. “You look… incredible.”

Her heart lurched. She forced a crooked grin, tried to lean on sarcasm like a crutch. “You three are sulking already? Relax. I’ll be gone a couple hours, not a lifetime.”

But the mask slipped, just for a beat, when her gaze flicked down to her trembling fingers. Yearning, disappointment, anger — all of it churned together beneath her practiced cool. She wanted so badly for this moment to mean something, for these three to gather her up and tell her she belonged here. And god, it hurt, because she knew they wouldn’t.

So she swallowed hard, slung her purse over her shoulder, and strode to the door.

“Don’t wait up.”

The latch clicked behind her, leaving the air heavy with the echo of her perfume — and three soulmates stunned into silence, aching for the girl who didn’t yet know she was theirs.

◇

Chiara descended into the Metro, heels clicking against the tiled floor, the air thick with brake dust and chatter. Five stops later, she emerged into the glow of downtown, wine-red dress catching the neon from shop windows. The restaurant’s name glimmered overhead in golden script, the smell of garlic and basil wafting out with every open door.

Inside, the clamor of cutlery and laughter pressed around her. And then—

“Chiara!”

Felicia bounded from the table, curls bouncing, arms thrown wide. Chiara’s heart softened despite herself. She hugged her sister tightly, letting herself smile, if only for a breath. Felicia’s warmth was unchanging — light, guileless, too bright to notice the shadows threading around them.

And then her mother’s voice cut in.

“Chiara. You’re late.”

The spell broke.

Dinner was a performance. She sat across from her mother, posture rigid, nodding through the endless commentary: how the dress was a bit too tight in the hips, how her vocabulary was “unpolished for a young lady in university,” how she should sit straighter, speak softer, smile more. Every bite of pasta turned to ash in her mouth.

Felicia, oblivious, chattered about school and friends, laughter bubbling like champagne. Chiara forced herself to answer, to encourage, to bask in her sister’s happiness. But the tension pulled tighter with every passive-aggressive remark, each correction disguised as concern.

Her mother’s eyes flicked over her like a jeweler inspecting a flawed diamond. Her body, her manners, her choices — nothing escaped notice.

By the end, Chiara’s smile was brittle glass. Her jaw ached from clenching it. Wine sat bitter on her tongue. She was drained, hollowed out, like someone had scraped her insides clean.

She excused herself politely, kissed her sister’s cheek, and walked out into the night air with the mask still on her face. Only when the Metro doors slid shut did she let her expression collapse, staring at her faint reflection in the glass, unrecognizable in the red dress and pinned hair.

◇

The apartment was dark when Chiara slipped back inside, the click of her door barely audible. She moved like a shadow, dress and heels swapped for a black hoodie and leggings, hair loose around her shoulders. The skateboard tucked under her arm gleamed faintly in the low light spilling from the kitchen.

Her pulse thundered, each beat echoing like fists against her ribs. Every step toward the door was rebellion — a refusal of her mother’s voice still gnawing at her skull: Sit straighter. Speak softer. Don’t embarrass me. She could still feel the phantom weight of those words pressing down, and each stride in her hoodie and leggings was her way of spitting them back out.

The itch under her skin burned hotter, unbearable now. She needed the night air like oxygen, needed the rush of asphalt beneath her wheels to scrape the poison from her veins. Her whole body hummed with it — the fire, the fury, the hollow ache where her laughter had been drained away at dinner.

Her throat was tight. Her chest too full. Her hands clutched the skateboard like a lifeline, fingers biting into the worn grip tape. This wasn’t about nostalgia. If she didn’t get out, she’d implode.

She nearly made it to the door when she froze.

Someone else was there.

Lovino stood by the counter, a half-empty glass of water in hand. His hazel eyes caught the dim light, sharp and searching, flicking from her hoodie to the skateboard clutched against her hip.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Chiara’s breath hitched. She felt caught, exposed, like a teenager sneaking out past curfew. Her fingers curled tighter around the board, shoulders stiff. Shit.

Lovino set his glass down slowly, carefully, like the smallest sound might shatter the air between them. His gaze didn’t waver this time, didn’t dart away. He looked at her fully, openly, drinking in the sight of her as though he’d been waiting for it. The hoodie, the board, the fire still crackling under her skin.

She shifted under the weight of it, eyes narrowing, mouth half-open to demand what the hell he was looking at. But before she could speak, his voice broke the silence.

“Posso venire con te?”

The Italian was soft, intimate, more plea than question. Can I come with you?

The words hung there, heavier than they had any right to be.

Chiara blinked at him, deer-caught, heart hammering. The kitchen felt too small, too quiet, too full of something she couldn’t name. She wanted to laugh, to shove past him, to snap back something flippant. Instead, all she could do was stand there, fire licking through her veins, staring at the man.

Chapter Text

She didn’t know what possessed her to say yes. Maybe it was the quiet reverence in his voice, maybe the way he had finally met her eyes without flinching. But the word left her lips before she could snatch it back.

Lovino slipped out of the kitchen like a ghost, the soft pad of his steps vanishing down the hall. Chiara stayed rooted, staring into the half-empty glass of water he’d left on the counter. The kitchen hummed with the silence he’d left behind, her own pulse roaring in her ears.

He reappeared just as swiftly, draped in an oversized sweater of Antonio’s atop his sleep shorts, sneakers loosely tied. And in his hand — a skateboard, edges scuffed and grip tape worn smooth by years of use.

Chiara cocked her head, a lopsided question tugging at her mouth despite herself. “I didn’t know you skated.”
Hazel eyes flicked to hers, sharp but not unkind. “And I didn’t know you did either.”

Touche.

She slipped out into the night, the apartment door clicking softly shut behind her, and he followed close on her heels.

The avenue opened before them, the sea stretched wide and restless to their right. The air was cool, briny, alive with the hush of waves and the faint hiss of tires on asphalt. Chiara dropped her board to the ground, the wheels rattling to life, and pushed off. Wind whipped her hair loose from its bun, the salt-stiff breeze filling her lungs until it stung.

Every push bled out the fire still crawling under her skin. Every breath in the night air loosened the knot her mother had tied in her chest.

Beside her, Lovino rode in silence, his movements sharp but steady. She felt his presence like a steady tether, close enough to notice, far enough not to crowd her.

For forty minutes they glided down the avenue, carving through empty streets, laughter caught in the hiss of their wheels when one of them wobbled. The city lights gleamed against the water, fractured gold in the dark sea.

Finally, they coasted down to the sand’s edge and dropped into the cool grit, boards abandoned beside them. The night wrapped around them, stars peeking faintly through the salt-heavy clouds.

Chiara tilted her head back, inhaling deep, and let the sea breeze burn through her. Her heartbeat was still uneven, her body still thrumming with fire, but here — with the crash of the waves and Lovino’s quiet presence at her side — she felt almost steady.

Lovino sat a pace away, elbows braced on his knees, eyes fixed out at the water. He didn’t speak, but the weight of his silence said enough: I see you. I won’t ask for more than you can give.

He fished a granola bar from his pocket and held it out wordlessly.

Chiara raised her brows, mouth quirking. “What, no dramatic speech? Just… food?”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t rise to the bait. She took it anyway, peeling back the wrapper and biting down, chewing in silence. Salt wind tangled her hair, and crumbs dusted her fingers. For a while, the only sound was the waves.

Then, low and gruff, almost casual:

“Your mom’s a real bitch.”

Chiara choked on a laugh, caught off guard. She threw her head toward him, eyes crinkling. “Yeah.”

The corner of his mouth twitched — not quite a smile, but not nothing.

“...That why you moved to Barcelona?” he asked after a beat, his voice quieter now.

She hummed, turning her gaze back to the dark horizon. She didn’t know the answer herself. Maybe. Probably. The hum slipped from her chest like a sigh, and he hummed back, a rare kind of understanding settling between them.

Silence stretched again, but this time it was softer. Chiara leaned back into her hands, letting the crash of the ocean smooth her raw edges. Lovino stayed bent forward, elbows on his knees, but she could feel his presence steady beside her, solid as the tide.

And then, like the thought had been knocking around her head all night, she turned to him.

“What were you guys gonna tell me before?”

Lovino’s eyes flicked wide at her question before narrowing again, a wall slamming back into place. He forced his voice into something steady, but she heard it — the quiver in it, like a string pulled too tight.
“Not really anything important.”
Chiara raised a brow, skeptical. “Tell me, bastard.”
“No.”

Her lips curled into a smirk, though her eyes searched him. “Coward.”
“Pain in the ass.”

They volleyed back and forth, her teasing sharp, his refusals sharper, until the words dulled into silence. For a while, they sat with only the waves filling the gaps, the plastic wrapper crinkling faintly in her fingers. Chiara leaned back on her palms, gazing at the dark horizon, thinking of how entangled her life had become with these three. Carmen’s emerald eyes, Antonio’s easy grin, Lovino’s quiet presence. It was dangerous, how much she wanted to keep them all. Dangerous, how much she wished—

The world had shifted, stilled — the stars sharpened above, the sea stretched glassy and infinite below. And there she was, outside herself, watching her own body sprawled on the sand.

Beside it sat Lovino.

Not the Lovino she knew, not fully — his face was smeared as though by an unseen thumb, blurred in strokes of beige and shadow. But the rest of him… God, the rest of him she knew.

The slump of his shoulders. The way his elbows braced against his knees. The heavy stillness that clung to him even in silence. It was the exact same posture, the same expression etched into his frame as the little boy she had once found crying by the storm-torn sea all those years ago.

The recognition gutted her. Her lips parted, eyes wide, chest seizing with something too big to contain.

It’s you.

A laugh — soft, incredulous — broke from her throat before she could stop it. She pressed her palm over her mouth to muffle the sound, heat rushing to her cheeks. Relief and disbelief warred in her chest until she couldn’t hold herself upright anymore.

Chiara collapsed back onto the sand, staring up at the night sky through tear-bright eyes. Everything clicked.

The fairy girl in the wheat fields.
The lonely boy by the sea.
The strong-willed Spanish boy in the market.

Each glimpse, each blurred figure, each fleeting thread of fate — they were here. They had always been here.

Her eyes fluttered shut, a smile tugging at her lips, fragile and unguarded. For a fleeting moment, she let herself bask in it — the idea that she belonged here, with them, in this impossible warmth.

And then the vision tugged, receded like the tide pulling away.

She blinked back into her body, the surf crashing in her ears, the granola wrapper crinkling faintly in her fist. She was herself again, staring up at the same stars, her heart hammering against her ribs.

“...Lovino?” she whispered, eyes still closed, voice trembling in the dark.

His head snapped toward her at the sound of his name, eyes wide, then narrowing again like he was scrambling to pull his mask back in place. But the mask faltered — badly.

Even in the dark, Chiara caught it: the longing etched into the line of his mouth, the way his hazel eyes burned before he glanced away too quickly, as if afraid she’d see too much.

“Hn?” His voice was rough, unsteady, like gravel caught in his throat.

Chiara’s lips parted. Her pulse roared in her ears, and the words tumbled out before she could stop them, soft but sharp, trembling with something that felt like both terror and release.

“When the hell were you guys going to tell me that we’re soulmates?”

The night stilled around them — no waves, no wind, no stars — just the two of them, suspended in the truth she had finally said aloud.

Lovino’s breath hitched, his body going taut as if she’d struck him. For a heartbeat, he didn’t move, didn’t speak. Then his hand clenched in the sand, knuckles white, as though the only thing keeping him from reaching for her was sheer, stubborn will.

“Chiara…” He said her name like it was both a curse and a prayer. His throat bobbed, eyes flicking to her, raw and unguarded. Everything they had tried to hide — the aching, the wanting, the fear — it was all right there, spilling into the space between them.

Chapter Text

Lovino’s eyes widened, the color climbing high across his cheekbones. He ducked his head quickly, tugging the hood of his sweater forward like a shield. For all his practiced scowls and sharp remarks, he looked utterly flustered — caught off guard in a way Chiara had never seen. His teeth nibbled into his bottom lip as if chewing the right words into shape, but none came.

In the end, all he managed was a rough sound of agreement — a low hum, nothing more, but it vibrated with the weight of everything he couldn’t yet say.

Chiara exhaled slowly, tension loosening from her shoulders. She leaned back onto her palms, letting the sea breeze cool her cheeks, and thought quietly for a long moment. Her pulse was still too loud in her ears, her mind still whirring.

Lovino’s voice broke the silence, softer than she’d ever heard it.

“How did you…?”

Her lips curved, a smile tugging at the edges even as her eyes turned toward the endless dark horizon. “I saw us on this beach together.” She let out a breathy laugh, almost disbelieving. “...I get glimpses of you guys sometimes.”

The words landed heavy.

Realization clicked behind Lovino’s hazel eyes. His blurred memories of Carmen’s timer, Antonio’s knowing, their endless hushed debates about how to tell her — they all came rushing back. And now this. The missing piece. He stared out at the tide, stunned, his heartbeat hammering loud in his chest.

They fell quiet again, waves filling the space between them. And then Chiara, dimples deepening into her cheeks, broke into a grin that lit her whole face.

She let herself remember.

The little boy on the stormy beach — shoulders hunched, grief pulling him smaller, lace tangled in his fists. The crash of waves against the cliffside, the way the salt had stung her skin even through the vision.

She remembered the small house perched above that cliff, weather-beaten shutters rattling in the wind. Warm light in the windows, though the boy had never looked back at it. And inside, she’d glimpsed once, just briefly, an older woman waiting for him — apron dusted with flour, hands calloused and soft. She had reached down, ruffled his hair with a tenderness that made Chiara ache, even across distance and blurred time.

“Piccolo pomodoro,” the woman had called him, voice warm as a hearth. Little tomato. It had clung to him, that nickname, sweet and silly and rooted in love.

Chiara blinked at him now, and the pieces fell together with breathtaking clarity — the stubborn set of his shoulders, the sharp lines of his posture, that damned curl.

Her lips curved, soft and certain, and she let the words spill like a secret finally freed:

“Your childhood nickname was little tomato.”

Lovino stiffened. His lips parted, fighting hard against the shy smile that threatened to bloom. He cursed softly.

“Dios mio, Chiara…”

Her laughter spilled into the night, unguarded and warm. She rolled onto her back in the sand beside him, grinning up at the stars like they were hers to claim.

The silence they settled into wasn’t heavy this time. It was peaceful, steady — like the tide itself had pulled its rhythm from the two of them.

Chiara tipped her head toward him, eyes half-closed, voice softer now.

“What’s yours?”

Lovino’s lips curved into something small and crooked, barely a smile, but it softened him in the moonlight. His voice was rough when it came, but steadier than she expected.

“Colorblindness.”

Chiara blinked, waiting. He didn’t meet her eyes, staring instead at the horizon where the sea lapped silver under the stars.

“I’m colorblind,” he continued finally, voice low, “but I can only see you three in color.”

The words dropped like a stone in her chest. She turned to him sharply, eyes wide. For a heartbeat she tried to imagine it — a whole world drained of blues and greens, muted skies, dull seas, skin tones faded to grey. Only three people blazing in vivid, impossible hues. Only three people who made the world real. Her chest tightened. God. To live like that. To know, instantly, without doubt, who belongs to you.

“I knew it was you when we first met.” He left it there, like it was the simplest truth in the world.

Chiara’s throat went dry. She flushed, warmth crawling up her neck. “What about the other two? Did they know?”

Relief flickered over his features, like finally saying it loosened a weight he’d carried too long. He tilted his head back, glancing at her over his shoulder.

“Yeah.”

Her stomach dropped. Heat rushed to her face, but this time it wasn’t warmth — it was mortification, raw and stinging.

Because the truth hit her all at once: her body had known. The flush every time Antonio grinned her way, the little hitch in her breath whenever Carmen brushed her hand along her back, the way her chest tightened at Lovino’s rare, reluctant smiles. She’d been craving them for weeks, months even. Instinctively, viscerally, she had been theirs.

And yet — she hadn’t seen it. She hadn’t put two and two together.

Of course they knew. Of course they could name it, claim it, recognize her the second she walked into a room. And her? She’d been stumbling around in the dark, telling herself it was just attraction, just coincidence, just bad luck that she wanted what she couldn’t have.

The shame scalded. Wanting them so deeply, so helplessly, while failing to know them in the way they had known her — it felt like a betrayal of its own kind. Like she’d failed some unspoken test.

Her nails dug crescents into her palms. She couldn’t look at Lovino, couldn’t bear the thought that he might see it written across her face — how badly she had wanted them all this time without even realizing what it meant.

Lovino, damn him, seemed to notice. His mouth twitched, and instead of letting her sink, he teased.

Lovino’s mouth tugged up into a cheeky smirk. “We’ve literally been flirting with you since day one.”

Chiara’s head snapped toward him, eyes wide, pulse jumping. “Wha—”

He cut her off, sharper this time, leaning just enough to twist the knife. “Did you really never notice us staring? It was so obvious. Even Francine noticed.”

Her stomach dropped. Heat flooded her face so fast it almost made her dizzy. Of course they had. Of course everyone had, except her. 

The memory of every little glance, every brush of fingers, every stupid flutter in her chest flared back all at once — proof that her body had known before her mind ever dared to. Mortification stung hot in her veins.

“Okay, okay!” she blurted, shoving at his shoulder harder than necessary. “Shut the fuck up.” Her glare was sharp, but the curve tugging at her lips betrayed her. She couldn’t decide if she wanted to sink into the sand or laugh.

She cleared her throat, grasping at distraction, forcing her voice to steady. “Tell me about Carmen and ’Tonio.”

Lovino let the silence stretch, satisfied at the way her cheeks still burned. Finally, his tone softened, though the smirk lingered. “Carmen’s got a countdown timer on her wrist.” He hesitated, then added, “And Antonio…” his hazel eyes flicked knowingly toward her, “…he can feel emotions.”

Chiara groaned, throwing her head back against the sand. No wonder Antonio always looked at her like he could read her mind. She imagined it — to feel other people’s emotions rushing through you like currents. 

To sense every flicker of longing she tried to bury, every pang of envy, every stupid crush-thought she shoved down. 

No wonder Antonio always seemed amused by her reactions. The man was probably relishing in the mental gymnastics she she forced herself into, scrambling to act cool while internally combusting.

Her mind turned, unwilling but relentless, toward Carmen. A countdown timer, ticking on the inside of her wrist. She imagined that too — numbers dwindling day by day, year by year, the weight of anticipation for the moment it struck zero. The certainty, the dread, the inevitability of it. No wonder Carmen had looked at her that way since the first second.

And finally, her own: the glimpses. Blurred faces, fleeting moments, their lives brushing against hers like phantom threads. For years she thought it was cruel — to feel their presence, to almost touch them, but never know them. Now, with the three of them sitting so close, it didn’t feel cruel anymore. It felt like inevitability.

Lovino glanced sideways, catching the tiny wrinkle of her nose, the way she sulked like a kid. His chest tugged tight, a quiet ache pressing against his ribs.

They walked in silence, boards tucked under their arms, the hush of waves fading behind them. The streets were almost empty now, bathed in that washed-out glow only 2 a.m. can conjure.

Chiara exhaled, the cool air fogging in front of her. “...So. Now what?”

Lovino stiffened, heat crawling up his neck. Merda. They hadn’t planned this far. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again, words catching on his tongue. Finally, he forced them out, rough around the edges.

“It’s okay that we’re... soulmates, right?”

Chiara blinked, head tilting, confusion knitting her brows. “Uh—what are you asking?”

He cursed inwardly, dragging a hand through his hair. Smooth, Lovino. Real smooth. 

“No, I mean—” His voice caught, then tumbled into a stammer. “You don’t have to answer now, but... are you okay with us?”

That gave her pause.

Her steps faltered, the board under her arm digging into her ribs. Breath caught sharp in her chest as his words replayed, heavier each time, like stones sinking in water.

Not him. Not just Carmen. Not just Antonio. Us.

Her cheeks burned hot enough to sting, color flooding up her throat as the implication snapped into focus. This wasn’t idle banter. This was real — raw, terrifyingly real. He wasn’t asking if she liked them, or if she wanted to keep laughing with them over late-night wine. He was asking if she could accept them. All three of them. 

Her lips parted, dry, clumsy. “Don’t you have to... I don’t know, talk this over with Carmen and Antonio first?”

Lovino shot her a sidelong look, equal-parts fluster written in every line of his face. “We did. What the hell do you think we were gonna tell you last night?” His tone was sharp, but his ears were red.

“Tch.” Chiara ducked her head, lips twitching despite the blush that betrayed her.

They walked another stretch in silence, the city hushed around them, only the echo of their footsteps on the pavement.

Chiara’s mind was a storm, crashing between disbelief and the startling honesty of it all. She was comfortable with them. God, more than comfortable. Around them she was unguarded in ways she hadn’t been in years — sharp edges dulled, armor peeled back without her even noticing. They looked at her, saw her, and something inside her unfolded to meet it.

Her chest tightened, the ache almost unbearable. Fear licked at her ribs, but beneath it, want surged hotter. She wanted their warmth, their laughter, their touch — all the things she’d forbidden herself to crave. She wanted to belong to them, to let herself fall, to stop pretending she was immune when every fiber of her being leaned toward them.

It scared her, how natural it felt. How easy it would be to tip forward and let herself drown in them.

And that want burned brighter now, because they weren’t just friends or fleeting crushes anymore. They were hers. And knowing it — feeling the weight of it settle into her bones — both thrilled her and split her wide open with terror.

Hesitant, her fingers brushed his. Once. Twice. Then she laced them through his, squeezing lightly as though to test if the world would shatter.

Lovino nearly tripped. His entire body locked up, eyes darting to where her smaller hand was tucked into his. Speechless. In love. Flustered. Embarrassed. And willing to die for her, right there on the cracked pavement. He swallowed hard and gripped back, gentle, reverent, as if she might disappear.

By the time they reached the apartment, neither had let go.

They slipped inside quietly, hands falling apart only at the bedroom doors. Lovino cleared his throat, still pink to the tips of his ears.

“We’ll... talk more tomorrow.”

Chiara nodded. “...Yeah.”

They parted ways, each retreating into the dark with hearts hammering, the echo of warm fingers still lingering like a promise.

Chapter Text

Chiara was dead asleep when the noise started. Voices, laughter, the quick staccato of footsteps pattering down the hall. She shifted groggily, pulling the comforter tighter around her shoulders.
Then a familiar, too-cheerful voice trilled just outside her door.

“Veeeee~ good morning, sorella!”
Before she could even groan a protest, the door was flung wide, hinges clattering. Chiara’s stomach dropped.

“…Merde” she muttered, and promptly shoved her face into the pillow.
It didn’t save her.

Felicia launched herself into the room like a missile, throwing off the blankets and tackling her into a death-grip hug. Perfume, sunshine, and way too much energy for this early in the morning.
Chiara wheezed. “Felicia—! Dio santo, get off! You’re crushing me—” She thrashed, limbs tangled, Italian curses muffled into the pillow. “And your heels! Madonna mia, why the fuck are your heels on my bed?”
Felicia only laughed harder, squeezing tighter. “Che cazzo fai qui? You didn’t even call!”

Somehow, she wiggled free, hair wild, face red with equal parts irritation and exhaustion. 

In the doorway stood Francine, Carmen, Antonio, and Lovino — four faces lined up, each wearing the same mix of fond amusement.

“Cute panties, by the way,” Francine sang, lilac eyes gleaming.
Chiara blinked. Froze. Then glanced down.
Her entire face went scarlet.

“OUT!” she barked, grabbing a pillow and hurling it toward the doorway. “Out, tutti quanti!”
Carmen smothered her laugh behind her hand. Antonio grinned, already backing up. Even Lovino’s mouth twitched before he looked away, muttering something under his breath. Francine, of course, cackled the loudest as she pulled the others down the hall.

The door clicked shut again, blessedly quiet.

Chiara sat at the foot of her bed, dragging a hand down her face. Her pulse was still hammering, but not just from embarrassment. The memories of last night washed over her — the sand beneath her, the crash of the waves, Lovino’s voice stammering into honesty. Her cheeks burned all over again.

“...Madonna, please fucking kill me.” she whispered, flopping back against the mattress.

She forced the heat down, shaking herself, and reached for the pair of shorts tossed over her desk chair. Sliding them on, she tugged her oversized sweater straight, running her hands through her hair with a crooked smile.
Chiara couldn’t wipe the red from her face, but she stepped into the living room anyway. Immediately, Felicia flung herself at her again, and this time Chiara caught her with a tired sigh, ruffling her hair. Resigned, she sank onto the floor between her sister’s legs, letting Felicia undo her braids.

Her younger sister chattered a mile a minute, words tumbling over each other. Mama had already flown back home for a work emergency. Oh — look at her nails! Oh — did Chiara like her new purse?

Chiara let her head tip back against Felicia’s knees, eyes fluttering half-shut as her sister’s chatter washed over her. She hummed when prompted, offered a lazy “that’s nice” when shown the purse, even let Felicia paint a line of invisible polish across her nails in demonstration. For once, she didn’t argue. She just let herself be the older sister again.

When Felicia finally paused for breath, Chiara glanced up — and froze.

They were watching her.

From the doorway, Francine leaned against the frame with a smirk, throwing in occasional commentary. Antonio lingered close too, grin soft, watching the sisters like he was seeing a secret side of Chiara he wasn’t meant to. Carmen’s eyes followed every movement with fondness, and even Lovino, pretending to read in the corner, hadn’t turned a page in minutes.

The realization crashed over her like cold water. Her face heated instantly, scarlet flooding her cheeks. She sat up a little too quickly, nearly knocking into Felicia’s chin, muttering, “Can I help you all?”

Francine snickered, unbothered. “Just enjoying the view, ma chérie. It’s not every day we see you so… sweet.”

“Fuck off,” Chiara shot back, but her voice cracked with embarrassment. She turned away, fumbling for the hem of her oversized sweater, tugging it down as though that would shield her from the weight of their gazes.

Her sister, of course, was oblivious — still happily showing off the purse and asking if she wanted to borrow it sometime. But Chiara’s pulse refused to settle. Because underneath the fondness in their looks, she felt something sharper, heavier. Like the warmth of the night before hadn’t dissipated at all, only shifted into daylight, quieter but just as undeniable.

She swallowed hard and focused on her sister, forcing herself to listen. Her stomach twisting in anger, Chiara was reminded that she hadn’t eatne breakfast yet.

Without a word, Antonio rose from where he’d been perched and set a bowl of cereal in front of Chiara. No fanfare, no explanation — just the soft clink of ceramic, spoon sliding into place.

Chiara blinked at it, then at him, then back at the bowl. “…Grazie,” she mumbled, voice barely above her breath. The warmth in Antonio’s green eyes only deepened, and Chiara flushed darker, ducking into her breakfast to hide. She pretended not to notice Carmen and Lovino staring too — Carmen with that easy warmth like he could feel the heat coiling in her chest, Lovino with sharp golden eyes that softened every time they landed on her.

Francine, of course, couldn’t resist. “Aww, look at you two sisters,” she teased, chin propped in her hands. “Matching dimples— how precious.”

Chiara shot her a death glare, spoon frozen midair. “Shut the fuck up, Francine.”

Felicia only giggled, dimples flashing, brunette hair spilling like a waterfall over her shoulder as she leaned into Chiara’s side. Adorable, radiant, all soft edges — the very picture of innocence.

Chiara, in contrast, looked carved sharper by the sun. Auburn curls tumbled loose down her back, catching threads of light. Freckles dusted the bridge of her nose and shoulders, her skin kissed warm by years outdoors. Where Felicia seemed delicate, Chiara carried a restless energy, her dimples rare but devastating when they appeared.

And in the quiet opinions of Carmen, Antonio, and Lovino — she was the more arresting of the two. Not just cute, not just beautiful, but magnetic. Sexy in her sharpness, adorable in her sulks, alluring in every unguarded glance.

Chiara shoveled another spoonful into her mouth, determined not to combust under the weight of their eyes.

Across the table, Ludwig had joined Gilbert in hushed conversation, his blond head bent earnestly toward his brother. Chiara narrowed her gaze on him like a hawk sighting prey.

She may still be half-asleep, but the edge in her stare was anything but. You better be treating my sister well, bastard.

Ludwig glanced up, meeting her eyes. His brows lifted. Gilbert, oblivious, laughed at something and clapped him on the back.  Ludwig only nodded once, solemn, as if he understood exactly what she meant.

Felicia was in full storytelling mode, her hands flying animatedly as she recounted the winding tale of how she and Ludwig had first met. Carmen leaned forward with genuine curiosity, chin propped in her palm as she asked, “So how did you two meet, exactly?”

That was all the invitation the younger sister needed.

“Veee~, it was at the library in Berlin three years ago…” she launched into it, voice lilting, the details tumbling out like pearls on a string. Ludwig, for his part, sat patiently beside her, stoic but faintly amused, as though he’d heard this story a hundred times before but didn’t mind hearing it again.

Chiara hummed once in acknowledgment, spoon tapping idly against her bowl, but her mind drifted. She turned her gaze toward the balcony, the glass doors cracked open to let in the early light. The sky was a clear, endless blue, not a single cloud to mar its surface. Sunlight poured across her face in soft, golden beams, catching on the curve of her cheekbone, her lips glossed faintly from milk.

She chewed her cereal in silence, lashes dark and long against her cheeks. The sight of her — unguarded, haloed by morning light, sweater slipping at one shoulder — caught and held the three across the room.

She looked like home. None of them said it aloud.

By the time Chiara blinked herself back into the moment, Felicia was finishing her story with a dreamy sigh, Ludwig stoic beside her as always. Chiara’s lips puckered unconsciously into a small pout, caught between exasperation and fondness.

After a little more chatter, hugs were exchanged. Felicia squeezed her sister so tightly Chiara nearly toppled over, and Ludwig was met with a handshake that carried more warning than warmth. Chiara’s hazel eyes narrowed with silent message: You better treat her right, bastard. Ludwig inclined his head once, grave enough to promise he understood.

Gilbert tagged along with them on their way out, shouting a cheerful goodbye that echoed down the hall.

The apartment quieted. Chiara stifled a yawn, muttering a curse about the hour as she carried her empty bowl to the sink. Only 9:00 a.m. and she already felt wrung out. 
She rubbed her eyes, sweater sleeve smudging her makeup faintly, and flopped down onto a bar stool with a grunt.

Francine breezed past, bag slung over her shoulder. “I’ll be at the library,” she winked.

Chiara squinted at her. “Girl, you don’t study.”

Francine only winked again and slipped out the door, leaving Chiara to sigh and collapse against the counter, chin in hand.

Lovino slid wordlessly onto the stool beside her, arms crossed, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. Carmen swung herself effortlessly up onto the counter, green eyes glimmering as they watched her with quiet amusement. Antonio emerged from the pantry, juggling three different snack options like he couldn’t decide, grin soft as he settled back into their orbit.

Chiara set her empty bowl down on the counter with a soft clink, swung her legs back and forth idly on the barstool, and narrowed her hazel eyes at the three who were absolutely not being subtle.

“So.” She pouted — lips glossed faintly, lower one pushed forward just enough to show the hint of dimples. “Lovino told me you’ve all known since you met me.”

The effect was immediate.

Carmen straightened on the counter, eyes flicking wide before darting away, guilt written across her face. Antonio froze mid-rummage in the pantry, the bag of crackers in his hand crinkling as he stammered something wordless. Lovino shifted in his chair, muttering a sharp curse in Italian as if the words could bite away his discomfort. His gaze darted to the floor, jaw tight — less flustered than yesterday, but still prickling with the frustration of being caught out.

The silence stretched — thick, guilty, almost comical.

Chiara sighed dramatically, folding her arms across her chest. “Unbelievable. All three of you. Sitting on it, letting me—” she cut herself off, cheeks flushing deeper. Letting me fall for you like an idiot.

Her pout deepened. It was more adorable than scathing.

Antonio was the first to cave. He set the crackers aside, rubbing at the back of his neck with sheepish warmth. “We didn’t want to push you,” he said softly, his voice lower than usual, like he was afraid too much volume might shatter the fragile moment. “You didn’t seem ready.”

Carmen’s hand found Chiara’s knee before she realized it, touch featherlight but grounding. “We thought… maybe it would scare you off,” she admitted, emerald eyes shimmering with something vulnerable. “So we waited.”

Lovino’s voice came last, gruff but thin with nerves. “...And we didn’t want to ruin what we already had.”

Chiara looked between them — the earnest guilt, the awkwardness, the sheer care bleeding through every syllable — and felt her frustration crack apart like a shell. Her chest loosened, though her face stayed flustered, still pink as she muttered, “Idiots. I told Lovino already, I’m… I’m okay with it. With you.”

The relief that swept across them was almost tangible. Antonio’s grin returned, soft but dazzling; Carmen’s shoulders relaxed as she exhaled shakily; Lovino ducked his head again, but this time there was the faintest curve of a smile on his lips.

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The afternoon stretched lazy and golden, sunlight slanting across the living room. A movie flickered low on the screen, its dialogue half-drowned by the comfortable hum of voices. Chiara sprawled across the rug, legs tucked beneath her oversized sweater, hair tumbling loose from its braid. Her laptop sat forgotten, pen idle in her hand.

Antonio was the one who started it, grinning like a kid. “So, Chiara… what else did you see? From those… glimpses.”

Carmen leaned forward eagerly, her chin propped on her palm. Lovino pretended to scowl from the corner of the couch, but even he tilted his head, waiting.

Chiara stretched her arms overhead, gaze flicking out toward the window where the autumn sky was soft and blue. Her words came slow, thoughtful. “I saw… a girl in the countryside, always running through wheat fields. A boy in a marketplace, juggling groceries and grinning like an idiot.” Her lips quirked, eyes narrowing in mock concentration. “And then there was you two… Lovino, you used to dance ballet. And Carmen—” she grinned outright “—you had a turtle. Limone.”

The reaction was immediate. Carmen gasped, delighted, hands clapping together. “¡Sí! Limone! You remember?” Her smile was all sunshine, emerald eyes glowing.

Lovino’s scowl faltered. Color rose in his cheeks as Antonio burst into laughter. “Ballet? Really?”

“Shut up,” Lovino muttered, but there was no bite in it. Just a rare, shy heat softening the edge of him.

The room buzzed with warmth, everyone smiling, teasing. For a heartbeat, Chiara basked in it. Then the memory shifted, heavier.

Chiara’s words lingered in the air, her voice softer than before.
“…And then there was the boy by the sea. Rain. Fog. He was clutching something in his hands. He looked… so sad.”

The room stilled. Carmen’s bright face dimmed, Antonio leaned forward slightly, and Lovino froze.

He didn’t fidget, didn’t deflect with a scowl. Just sat there, jaw tight, shoulders rigid. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, rough at the edges.
“That wasn’t just a bad day.”

Chiara’s gaze caught on him, heart hammering. He wasn’t looking at her, but past her — at the floor, the wall, anywhere but her eyes.

“My parents died. I didn’t know what else to do. I just… ran.” His fingers flexed against his knees, knuckles blanching white. “I ended up on the beach with the last thing I had of her. Lace from her dress.”

The words were blunt, clipped, but they carried weight enough to silence the whole room.

Chiara felt the air press down on her chest, memory rising like tidewater. The little boy with his shoulders hunched against the storm. The fabric clenched tight, the grief in the air so heavy it had seeped into her even then.

Her throat tightened, but she didn’t speak. Instead, she shifted closer — not touching him, not intruding, just letting the space between them shrink.

Carmen’s hand ghosted over his arm, steadying without words. Antonio’s golden-brown eyes softened, their usual warmth tempered by quiet gravity.

For a long beat, the only sound was the muted chatter of the television in the background.

Finally, Lovino let out a harsh breath, like he’d been holding it the entire time. “So yeah. You saw me at my worst.”

Chiara shook her head immediately, her voice firm despite the tremor in it. “No. I saw you survive.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty — it was full. Heavy, but not unbearable. The kind that pressed them all closer without needing to say another word.

The weight of Lovino’s confession still hung in the air, thick and steady like the hush after a storm. Nobody rushed to fill it — they simply sat in it, let it be.

Eventually, Carmen shifted first. She slid from her perch on the arm of the couch to settle beside Lovino, close enough that their shoulders brushed. Her emerald eyes softened, no teasing now, just quiet affection. Antonio leaned back with a sigh, stretching his legs out, his golden-brown gaze flicking between them with something like pride — or relief.

Chiara hadn’t moved, though her chest still throbbed with the echo of his words. She didn’t know what she could say that wouldn’t feel clumsy. So instead, she reached for the remote and switched the TV volume up a notch, letting the sound of some ridiculous rom-com bleed into the silence.

The spell broke — gently, almost imperceptibly. Antonio groaned about Chiara’s “terrible taste” in movies, Carmen immediately defended it, and Lovino muttered that they were both idiots.

Chiara snorted despite herself, the sound easing the knot in her throat. She tugged a blanket down from the back of the couch and tossed it over her legs, letting the soft fabric ground her.

Minutes melted into laughter and bickering, the kind that came easy in their strange, tangled little family. Carmen kept leaning into her side for warmth, Antonio sprawled like a cat at their feet, Lovino grumbling but refusing to move closer than an arm’s length away.

Chiara let herself breathe. Let herself feel the simple comfort of it: the press of shoulders against hers, the soft flicker of the TV across their faces, the rise and fall of voices she knew too well.

Her eyelids grew heavy, warmth pulling her under. She fought it, stubborn as ever, but eventually slumped sideways. Carmen immediately shifted to let her rest her head, Lovino tugged the blanket higher with a mutter, and Antonio, catching her yawn, lowered the volume on the TV.

Chapter Text

Some weeks later, life had settled into a rhythm. Not perfect, not always graceful — but theirs.

Mornings often found Chiara curled somewhere she shouldn’t be: on the couch with Carmen’s legs slung over her lap, in Antonio’s hoodie two sizes too big, or half-dozing against Lovino’s shoulder while he grumbled about it under his breath. Evenings were no better — meals cooked in too-small kitchens, wine bottles stacked on the counter, movie nights where nobody agreed on what to watch but everyone piled under the same blanket anyway.

It wasn’t always easy. Sometimes, it was messy. Sometimes, the weight of what they were still pressed sharp against their ribs. But more often than not, it was warm. Familiar. Home.

Francine, of course, refused to let her live it down.

“How,” she asked one night, perched smugly on the arm of the couch, “is your big magical soulmate-language a form of vision, and you didn’t recognize them?”

Gilbert cackled from the kitchen. “Yeah, Chi! Even I saw it!”

Chiara groaned, swiping at Francine from where she sat firmly in Antonio’s lap, his arms looped lazily around her waist. “You DO realize their faces were blurred, right?!” she snapped, cheeks crimson. “Blurred. As in — impossible. As in — shut up, Fran!”

Carmen bit her lip, trying and failing to hide her grin. Lovino muttered something sharp in Italian that made Antonio laugh so hard his whole chest shook.

Carmen bit her lip, trying and failing to hide her grin. Lovino muttered something sharp in Italian that made Antonio laugh so hard his whole chest shook.

And yet, even as the teasing swirled around her, her lips curved. Because the truth was, she didn’t care. Not really.

Blurred faces, missed signs, clueless beginnings — none of it mattered anymore. Because she had them now. All three of them.