Chapter Text
Lara wasn’t just late.
She was really late.
As soon as she saw the time, she burst out of the studio and headed towards her car. When she turned off the do not disturb mode of her phone, countless of messages started popping up. First one from Megan.
Megan:
heading over to Dani and Sophia’s
wanna pick u up?
Then another from Daniela
Daniela:
Sophia is making your favorite dumplings today, don’t be late!
She scrolled down to the latest one and it was Sophia
Sophia:
Lizzie is asking where aunt Lara is, please she is impatient
“Shit” murmured Lara as she put her keys in the ignition.
Lara’s grip tightened around the steering wheel as she navigated the familiar route toward the Laforteza-Avanzini home, the city unfolding in half-seen streaks of light and motion beyond the windshield. Even now, fragments of the bridge she’d been obsessing over refused to let go, looping insistently at the edges of her thoughts like they had no idea she’d already left the studio behind.
But they weren’t the problem right now.
Her phone had made sure of that.
The messages still sat fresh in her mind—Megan casually checking in, Daniela’s gentle reminder about dumplings, Sophia’s last note that carried just enough urgency to tighten something in Lara’s chest. And beneath all of it, the simplest one of all: Lizzie is asking where Aunt Lara is.
That one lingered the longest.
Lara exhaled through her nose, shifting her grip on the wheel as she turned onto a wider street, the guilt settling in deeper with every passing block. Missing deadlines at the label was routine—annoying, sometimes stressful, but manageable. People could reschedule meetings. Tracks could be adjusted. Time could be negotiated in that world.
But a five-year-old didn’t negotiate.
A promise was a promise.
And right now, she was very late to keep one.
Her jaw tightened slightly as she pressed a little harder on the accelerator, the familiar streets of the neighborhood drawing closer with each turn. The guilt wasn’t loud, not exactly—it was quieter than that, persistent and sharp, like a small hand tugging at her sleeve, reminding her she’d chosen this responsibility willingly. Dumplings, after all, had been her idea too.
As soon as Lara reached Sophia and Daniela’s home, she practically stumbled out of the driver’s seat, her legs heavy after ten hours tethered to a studio chair. The evening air was crisp, but it did little to clear the residual hum of synths still buzzing behind her eyes.
She jogged toward the porch.
Megan didn’t move an inch—just tapped her watch with a slow, deliberate click of her fingernails.
“Nice of you to join the living, Lara,” she called, voice laced with dry amusement. “I was about ten seconds away from telling Sophia to give your portion to the neighbors.”
“Don’t you dare,” Lara panted, brushing past her into the foyer. “The bridge was falling apart, Megan. I couldn’t leave it mid-collapse.”
“The only thing collapsing right now,” Megan replied, falling into step behind her, “is a five-year-old’s patience. Come on.”
Lara practically tumbled into the house, the cool night air following her through the heavy front door. She hadn't even fully crossed the doorway when the voice hit her.
“Shoes,” Daniela called out from the depths of the house. It wasn't a shout, but it was that sharp voice she used when correcting a student’s posture at the studio.
“I just walked in,” Lara protested, her hands fumbling with the strap of her laptop bag.
“Shoes,” Daniela repeated, her tone dropping into that flat, final register that signaled the conversation was over.
Lara rolled her eyes, but the habit was too deeply ingrained to fight. She kicked them off, her boots hitting the floor with a dull thud before she lined them up neatly by the door. Megan, who had been hovering just behind her, slipped her own sneakers off without a single word of protest, sliding them into the row with practiced ease.
“See?” Megan murmured, leaning in close as they stepped onto the soft, plush rug of the hallway. “This is why you come. Discipline. It’s good for the soul, Lara.”
Lara ignored her, adjusting her sweater and trying to shake off the lingering hum of the studio. She followed the sound of clinking silverware and the irresistible scent of ginger toward the back of the house.
The Laforteza-Avanzini home always felt like a different world—one where the lighting was warmer, the air was clearer, and the chaos was at least organized by people who loved each other. As she reached the archway of the kitchen, she saw Sophia standing by the stove.
"I’m here," Lara announced, her voice a mix of a plea and a greeting. "I’m so sorry, Soph. The bridge—"
"The bridge was falling apart, I heard," Sophia finished for her, finally looking up. She didn't look angry; instead, her eyes held that soft, knowing warmth she kept reserved for the people who shared her last name and her dinner table. "But if you don't wash your hands in the next ten seconds, the bridge between you and a hungry five-year-old is going to be permanently burned."
"Auntie Lara!"
A high-pitched squeal preceded a familiar blur of motion. Elizabeth skidded into the kitchen, her socks sliding across the floor like she was on ice. She looked smaller than she had a week ago, her new jersey hanging low over her shorts, the bold Laforteza-Avanzini lettering practically wrapping around her tiny frame.
"Auntie Lara, you were lost!" Elizabeth accused, though she was already wrapping her arms around Lara’s waist in a death grip. "Mama said you were with the music, but I thought you went to the wrong house."
"Never, I just got stuck in the studio, Lizzie. I'm sorry," Lara laughed, dropping a hand onto the girl’s head and feeling the guilt finally begin to dissolve.
Elizabeth pulled back, looking up with wide, expectant eyes. "Did you see it? Did you see my jersey?" She spun around, pointing a small finger at the name on her back. "Tomorrow is my first practice after summer break! You're coming to see me score, right?"
Lara froze for a split second, her mind a complete blank. The studio had been a vacuum, sucking every date and promise out of her head until only notes remained. "Tomorrow?" she repeated, her voice hitching.
"Lara," Daniela warned, appearing from the pantry with a bottle of wine and a stack of napkins. She caught Lara’s eye over Elizabeth’s head, her expression hovering somewhere between amusement and a legitimate threat. "Don't you dare say you forgot."
"I—no! No, of course not," Lara lied quickly, offering a strained smile to the five-year-old who was now staring at her with rising suspicion. "Saturday. Ten a.m. I wouldn't miss it for anything."
"Good," Sophia said, finally sitting down and raising her glass. "Because we’ve heard the league finally got serious this year. There’s a whole new coaching staff taking over the youth division."
"New coaches?" Megan asked, sliding into a chair and reaching for the soy sauce. "What happened to that guy with the loud whistle and the cargo shorts?"
"Gone," Daniela said, looking over at Sophia. "Thank god. Apparently, they hired someone with actual professional experience. A woman named Manon, I think?"
"And a girl named Yoonchae!" Elizabeth added, her mouth already half-full of a dumpling.
"Manon and Yoonchae," Lara repeated the names, the syllables feeling foreign compared to the technical jargon she'd been drowned in all day. She looked at Megan, who simply shrugged, equally in the dark.
"Well," Megan said, a playful grin forming. "As long as they don't make the parents do laps, I’m happy. But a professional coach for five-year-olds? That sounds intense."
"I just hope she’s patient," Lara muttered, finally taking a bite of a dumpling and feeling the tension of the day start to bleed away. "I don't think I'm ready for 'intense' at ten o'clock on a Saturday morning."
The table broke into easy laughter at that—soft, familiar, the kind that didn’t ask anything of her except to stay for a while.
Elizabeth, however, had already moved on from the conversation entirely. She was back at Lara’s side, tugging insistently at her sleeve.
“You promise, right?” she asked again, quieter this time. No performance now—just certainty seeking confirmation.
Lara set her dumpling down.
For a second, she almost answered too quickly. The reflex to reassure, to smooth everything over with a promise she could organize later.
But she stopped herself.
Instead, she crouched slightly so she was level with Lizzie’s eyes.
“I promise,” she said, slower. Clearer. “Ten a.m. Saturday. I’ll be there. Loud cheering, a gallon of coffee, the whole package.”
Lizzie studied her face like she was checking for hidden edits.
Then she nodded once, decisive. “Okay.”
And just like that, the tension vanished. She darted away again, already reclaiming her seat and her dumplings as if doubt had never existed.
Around the table, the conversation drifted again—Megan teasing Daniela, Sophia topping up glasses, the easy overlap of voices filling the kitchen like it had always been there waiting for Lara to arrive.
Lara leaned back in her chair, finally letting her shoulders drop.
For the first time all day, the bridge in her head didn’t feel like a demand.
It just… was.
Outside, the night pressed softly against the windows, but inside the Laforteza-Avanzini kitchen, everything stayed warm, grounded, unfinished in the best possible way.
And for once, Lara didn’t reach for the next thing.
She stayed.