Page 48 of The Road to You

LENA

I t’s a late July morning, the kind that already smells like sunshine and jasmine, and our backyard is drenched in warm light.

The sliding glass door is wide open, letting in the scent of basil from the potted plant Michele insists on keeping alive like it’s a child, and somewhere in the distance, a neighbor’s sprinkler ticks in rhythm with the breeze.

My Los Angeles house somehow turned into our house—emphasis on the our , because within weeks, it started sprouting basil and rosemary like it had been waiting its whole life for an Italian man to move in and reclaim the kitchen.

Now it smells permanently like garlic and ambition.

And when I say we use the herbs from the garden, I mean I pluck them proudly like a forager in yoga pants while Michele does all the actual cooking.

I provide the moral support and enthusiastic taste-testing. It’s teamwork. Sort of.

Inside, I’m perched on the kitchen counter, legs swinging lazily while Michele bustles around in front of the stove, shirtless, wearing only cotton shorts and that smirk he saves for when he knows he’s showing off.

“You’re watching me like I’m a cooking show,” he teases, tossing a handful of cherry tomatoes into the pan like he’s on Top Chef .

I let my gaze linger, shamelessly drinking him in—every line of his chiseled chest, every flex of muscle in his thighs as he moves around the kitchen like it’s just another workout.

Two years post-surgery, and he’s not just healed, he’s thriving , carved back into almost peak form with that effortless grace that once made headlines and now just makes me melt.

But the most breathtaking part isn’t the body, it’s the joy.

The quiet, steady happiness that lights up his face every morning when he pulls on his gear and heads to the facility.

He’s not playing for the glory of a European superclub, not for trophies or headlines.

He’s playing because he loves it. Because it fills him up.

And every time I see that easy, satisfied smile as he laces his cleats, I know he’s exactly where he’s meant to be. And that’s what matters most to me.

“You are a cooking show,” I grin, lifting my coffee to my lips. “A very sexy one with a light sprinkling of olive oil.”

He looks over his shoulder and winks. “Stick around, there’s going to be a plot twist.”

“You burning the eggs again?” I grin, loving how I can push his buttons just by reminding him of that one debacle.

“That happened once. And they were scrambled. On purpose.” He narrows his eyes at me.

“Sure they were.” I smile, hiding behind the rim of my cup.

He rolls his eyes, but he’s laughing, and I let the sound sink into my bones. This is how our days feel now, like love and breathless laughter and skin caressing skin in the middle of the day and night.

We’ve both been off work for a couple of weeks. He is between games, and I am between projects. Instead of flying to some exotic island like we swore we would, we ended up vacationing at home. Turns out, we’re terrible at planning and even worse at packing. But I wouldn’t change a second of it.

We sleep late. Make love in the middle of the day.

Take walks to the farmers’ market and fight over what gelato flavor to get like it’s a life-altering decision.

And sometimes, when it’s quiet like now, I catch myself staring at him, this man who barged into my summer in Italy and somehow stayed for all the seasons after.

I hop down from the counter and sneak up behind him, slipping my arms around his waist and resting my cheek against his back.

He hums. “That’s cheating. I’m cooking.”

“I’m bored. Tell me something I don’t know.”

I will never get tired of him talking about what he is passionate about, it doesn’t matter if it’s soccer or history. The way his eyes light up makes me fall even harder for him.

He stirs the pan, the scent of garlic blooming in the air. “About?”

“History. Come on, Professor. Impress me.”

Michele chuckles, but I feel the moment his brain kicks into gear. “Okay,” he says after a beat. “Did you know Cleopatra wasn’t Egyptian?”

I pull back just enough to look at him. “She wasn’t?” Well, there is something new to learn from him.

He shakes his head, proud. “She was Greek. From the Ptolemaic dynasty. Descendant of one of Alexander the Great’s generals. But she also embraced the Egyptian culture, and is basically considered Egyptian in her way of ruling.”

I blink. “You’re so hot when you talk nerdy to me.”

And it’s true. Because no matter how hot his body is, his brain is even hotter, and his personality makes him almost perfect in my eyes. He’s not perfect, I know, but he’s perfect for me, and I love that feeling.

He turns off the stove and faces me, spoon in hand. “You say that now, but you mocked my Roman Empire fact three days ago.”

I pretend to be offended. “I didn’t mock it. I just said your obsession is a little too real.”

He dips the spoon into the sauce and holds it out to me. “Taste it. And tell me I’m not the superior half of this relationship.” He winks and grins, knowing I don’t fall for his bullshit.

I chuckle and lean forward, licking the spoon with a dramatic moan. “Okay, damn. That’s unfairly good.”

“I know.” He sets the spoon down and leans in to kiss me, his hands sliding into my hair, warm and sure. The kiss is slow, like we have nowhere else to be. Because we don’t.

When we part, I whisper, “I love you.”

He presses his forehead to mine. “I love you more.”

“Nope,” I murmur. “Not possible.”

He kisses me again. And again. Until we’re laughing into each other’s mouths, my back pressed against the counter while he stands in front of me, shirtless, golden from the sun, and smug as hell because the sauce simmering on the stove smells like heaven and he knows it.

His chest brushes mine when he leans in, his skin warm from the heat of the kitchen and the steam curling up from the pot.

I’m not cooking, I never am, but I’m exactly where I want to be: leaning against the countertop, watching him move with the kind of ease that only comes from doing something you love.

Garlic and tomato fill the air, rich and comforting, and music plays low in the background, but all I hear is the sound of his laughter and the thud of my heart when he turns around and gives me that look.

He reaches for me again, another kiss, just because he can, and this one is softer, lingering. A promise wrapped in warmth. I cradle the side of his face, my thumb brushing the curve of his jaw, and I think: this is it. This is everything.

No fairy tales. No red carpets. No need for the world to spin any faster than this moment right here.

Just him.

Just us.

Here.

Now.

Together.

And I never want to be anywhere else.