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Wrong Time, Right Place

Pt1.

The last time she’d been in the Mangione house, she was nine, and someone had dared her to jump off the diving board.

She didn’t. She stood at the edge of the pool for what felt like an hour, heart hammering in her chest, goggles too tight against her face. Kathleen was laughing from the kitchen window, Luciana was sunbathing like a goddess on a striped towel, and Maria Santa had already done a backflip and was begging someone to “hurry up and go.”

She remembered Luigi too. Not as a boy she really knew—but as the kid who fixed things. Always barefoot, always squinting at something broken. He was quiet back then. Soft-spoken. Always carrying some piece of a gadget around with him. At some point that summer, he helped her dig a caterpillar out of a net and didn’t make fun of her when she cried. That was all she remembered. That, and the way the Mangione house smelled like lemon and rosemary, even when it rained.

Now she was 19, and back on that same porch. Only this time, she wasn’t here to swim or laugh or prove anything. She wasn’t a little girl anymore. She wasn’t even sure who she was lately. The door opened before she could knock. Her mom was already inside, calling out greetings like she’d never left. It was early summer, just past five, and Baltimore’s air had that heavy warmth to it, like the heat was sinking into the wood and staying there. She stood on the welcome mat with her duffel bag and her tote sliding off her shoulder, hair pulled into a lazy braid, lips dry, skin tight from the drive.

“Come on,” her mom called gently, waving her in. “Don’t just stand there.”

She stepped inside, and it hit her like it always did. The smell. Garlic and oil. Faint citrus. Something sweet baking in the oven. And the music, some old Italian record humming low from the dining room stereo, like the whole house had a pulse. For a second, her body didn’t know how to relax. It had been on edge for weeks. Finals. Projects. A roommate breakup that wasn’t even romantic but still felt like one. And the boy.

God. The boy. The one who kissed her like she was a secret and left her like one too.She hadn’t cried about him. Not really. But she hadn’t slept much since, either.bAnd now here she was. In a house she barely remembered but always missed. Kathleen appeared first, wiping her hands on a towel, smiling like she meant it. “You’re taller.”

“I’m literally the same height,” she said, setting her bag down. But her face cracked into a grin anyway.Kathleen pulled her in. It wasn’t one of those fake hugs. It was real, warm, tight, like she hadn’t just seen her grow up through Instagram. “I’m so happy you’re here,” she said into her hair. “You’re staying as long as you need. Okay? No pressure to be anything.”

That almost made her cry. She blinked it back. The kitchen was chaos in the best way. Luciana was barefoot on the counter, swiping wine from a bottle and yelling about how someone stole her favorite candle. Maria Santa was chopping tomatoes with a toddler balanced on her hip, pretending she wasn’t doing three things at once. Her mom was already laughing with Louis, Luigi’s dad, who was by the stove stirring a pot of red sauce and shaking his head fondly at the noise around him.

“This house,” her mom muttered, squeezing her shoulder, “I swear, it hasn’t changed since we were your age.”

And for the first time in weeks, she smiled and meant it.

~~~~~~~~~~~

They gave her Luciana’s old room. The one with the yellow walls and the creaky fan. It smelled like rose water and faded perfume. There was a bookshelf by the bed with random paperbacks and one photo of the three siblings taped to the wall—Luigi, Maria Santa, and Luciana, probably in high school, grinning at something off-camera. She unpacked slowly, half-listening to the sound of voices downstairs. Her mom had wandered off to help with something in the backyard. The Mangione sisters were still in the kitchen bickering like it was a sport. It was nice. No one was asking her to perform. No one was demanding to know how she was doing or expecting her to talk about school. She was just here. And that was enough for now. When she came back down, it was golden hour. Light spilling through the windows, Luciana now dancing in the dining room with a half-drunk glass of wine, Maria Santa setting the table, Kathleen humming along to the music with a dish towel slung over her shoulder.

“There she is,” Luciana called out. “We were about to send a search party.”

“She was unpacking,” Maria Santa said, smiling at her softly. “Let her breathe.”

“She can breathe while chopping basil,” Luciana joked, already pulling her by the wrist into the kitchen.

They handed her a cutting board and made room for her at the island. It was loud. Lively. Plates clattered, someone opened a bottle too fast and sprayed the counter, and Kathleen shooed everyone away from the oven like she had secrets to protect.

“You look so much like your mom,” Maria Santa said, dicing garlic. “But your mouth is all your dad’s. Sharp.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Luciana gasped. “She talks back! I love her.”

“She’s not quiet anymore,” Kathleen said proudly, pouring olive oil into a skillet. “She’s got fire now.”

She blushed a little. But it felt good. It felt like being seen.She wasn’t used to people celebrating the parts of her she didn’t have to hide. The back door creaked open, letting in the faint sound of cicadas and the warm breath of early evening air. The kitchen was already buzzing,Maria Santa stirring something on the stove, Luciana holding court with a glass of wine, and Kathleen rummaging through the fridge with her whole body like she was wrestling it.

She didn’t notice him right away. Not until Kathleen called out, casually, “Lu, tell your father to stop poking the sausages. They need to sear, not suffer.” And then he laughed. That sound, low, easy, familiar in a way she didn’t expect made her look up. He was standing in the doorway like he belonged to it. White linen shirt open at the collar, sleeves rolled once, skin warm and tanned from the sun. His hair was short, dark, cleanly styled, like he’d combed it once that morning and hadn’t touched it since. His jaw was a little sharper than she remembered. His smile, somehow softer. He looked like he smelled like sea salt and warm cotton. Like he’d been outside all day fixing something just because someone asked. Like the kind of man who wasn’t trying to be the center of attention, but always ended up there anyway. His eyes moved across the room,briefly, casually until they found hers And stopped. It was quiet, just between them. The kind of moment that doesn’t interrupt anything but still makes the air feel different. His brow twitched like he was trying to place her, then smoothed when it clicked.

“You grew up,” he said, not surprised. Just quietly impressed.

“So did you,” she replied, heartbeat climbing way too fast.

He smiled, tilted his head. “You’re not still afraid of the deep end, are you?”

She huffed out a breath. “Only when I’m tired.”

Kathleen’s voice cut through before he could respond. “Luigi, baby, grab the wine from the table and make yourself useful.”

He stepped past her, giving her a nod so subtle it barely counted, and moved toward the counter like he hadn’t just knocked the wind out of her. But before he reached the sink, he glanced back. Not to say anything. Just to look. And she wasn’t sure what kind of look it was—curious, familiar, maybe something else—but it landed in her chest and stayed there, warm and buzzing beneath her skin.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The sun was just beginning to slip behind the trees when Kathleen announced dinner like it was a holiday. “Everyone out back! Shoes optional, opinions not.”

She followed the flow of bodies onto the patio, arms brushing shoulders, plates clinking, Luciana already halfway through a dramatic retelling of a Tinder date that ended in an emergency room. The long wooden table was set with mismatched chairs and wine glasses that didn’t match either. Candles flickered low, napkins were folded but already sliding out of place, and everything smelled like roasted tomatoes, lemon zest, and summer. She didn’t know where to sit. Her mom had found a seat next to Louis, deep in conversation about property taxes, and Maria Santa was balancing her toddler in one arm while waving a fork in the other. She hesitated at the edge of it all, unsure where she fit—until she felt someone step beside her.

“Here,” Luigi said, quietly, nodding to the last empty chair.

Next to him.

She glanced at it, then at him. He was already sliding into his seat, one arm resting lazily along the back of the chair beside his. Like it had always been meant for her.

She sat. Close enough that their knees almost touched under the table.

The food came in waves. Bread, salad, pasta. Kathleen moved like a magician between courses, and Luciana was already tipsy enough to declare herself “a saint for helping with the dishes later.”

Conversations layered around her like music—half-heard stories, laughter that built without warning, forks scraping against plates. It was loud and warm and beautiful in the kind of way you forget you need. And then Luigi leaned in. Not dramatically. Just enough that his shoulder brushed hers.

“So,” he said, eyes still on his plate, voice low enough that no one else could hear, “are you actually here for the summer, or did someone bribe you?”

She took a sip of her wine before answering. “Little of both.”

He smiled, slow. “I figured. You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“Like your brain’s still somewhere else.”

She turned to him. “And you don’t?”

His grin widened, but he didn’t argue. A pause settled between them. Not awkward just full. Like neither of them was in a rush to ruin it.

“I forgot how loud your family is,” she said finally, glancing at Luciana now singing backup vocals to the music playing through a tiny Bluetooth speaker. Luigi laughed into his glass. “That’s their quiet setting. You should hear them at Christmas.”

“I’m scared.”

“You should be.”

She found herself smiling without thinking. It was easy, being near him. He didn’t talk too much. Didn’t force it. But every now and then, he said something that made her feel like he really saw her. Not the version she was pretending to be. Just her. Kathleen came by and topped off their glasses. Luciana shouted across the table to say she looked “suspiciously good in this lighting,” and someone dropped a spoon that clattered like thunder. But all she could feel was the weight of his gaze when she looked down. Their arms touched again when they both reached for the bread. Neither of them moved away.

By the time dessert was cleared, the sky had turned completely dark. The candles on the patio burned low, flickering against empty wine glasses and half-finished plates, catching in the gold of Luciana’s earrings as she waved a fork dramatically and told a story she’d clearly told before. Her mom was yawning into her sleeve. Maria Santa had her youngest slumped against her shoulder, fast asleep, curls tangled and cheeks sticky with tiramisu. Louis stood to help her carry him in, and one by one, the others began drifting back into the house—laughing, brushing crumbs from laps, stretching their arms above their heads like the night itself had worn them out. She stood too, unsure where to go. Luciana kissed her on the cheek without warning and whispered, “You’re handling us beautifully.”

She smiled, a little dazed. “I used to think this family was loud.”

“Oh, honey,” Luciana said, looping her arm around her waist for a quick squeeze, “we’re just getting started.”

Inside, the kitchen was quieter now. Dimmer, too only the warm under-cabinet lighting left on, making the marble counters glow softly. There was a stack of dishes in the sink, a tray of burnt lemon rinds, and a towel half-crumpled near the sink like someone had given up mid-clean. She lingered there a moment, just taking it in. It was rare to see a kitchen like this when it wasn’t full of voices. When the energy had settled and you could finally hear your own breathing.

Then she heard footsteps behind her.

“Leave them,” Luigi said, his voice lower now, softer without the buzz of dinner around them. “You’re a guest.”

She turned. He was rolling up his sleeves further, collar still open, curls a little tousled from the humidity outside. He looked… relaxed. Like the night had worn him in all the right ways.

“So are you,” she said.

He reached past her for a dish and grinned. “I live here half the year. That makes me an unpaid employee.”

She hesitated, then grabbed the towel and bumped her hip lightly against his. “Fine. Then I’m your assistant.”

He raised an eyebrow, amused. “You gonna dry?”

“If you wash.”

“Deal.”

And just like that, they found a rhythm. He washed slowly, carefully, like someone who knew how to do it right—rinsing twice, stacking neatly. She dried, hands brushing his a few times too many. Neither of them mentioned it. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was… charged. Familiar in a way she hadn’t expected. Every now and then, he’d say something—point out that Luciana had hidden an untouched shrimp under her napkin or that Louis always left the forks for last. Small things. Observations. He noticed things. She liked that.

“You used to be scared of this kitchen,” he said suddenly, glancing at her with a little smirk.

“Only because Luciana threatened to throw me in the oven once.”

He laughed, deep in his chest. “She’s gotten nicer.”

“She gave me wine and called me hot. I’m terrified.”

He handed her a plate and looked at her a little longer than necessary. “She’s not wrong.”

She paused. The towel stilled in her hands. He didn’t look away. His expression didn’t change. And she wasn’t sure what to say—if she should joke, deflect, or pretend like her pulse didn’t just skip—but before she could decide, he turned back to the sink.

The moment passed. Quietly.

But it stayed there between them.

Humming.

By the time the last dish was done, her hands smelled like lemon and soap, and she was a little dizzy,but not from the wine. He wiped the counter with the back of his wrist and leaned against it, arms folded.

“You’re different,” he said softly.

She glanced at him. “So are you.”

A pause.

Then, like he couldn’t help it: “In a good way.”

Something in her chest tightened. The kind of ache that wasn’t sad. Just full. Before she could respond, Kathleen’s voice echoed from the hallway. “Luigi, don’t leave her alone in there. Give her the tour or something.”

He didn’t move. Just looked at her.

“You want the tour?” he asked.

“Only if it includes snacks.”

He smiled.

And led her out of the kitchen.

He didn’t really give her a tour. He started in the hallway, pointed vaguely toward a guest bathroom, then made some joke about Luciana’s old room being cursed—which, judging by the crooked closet door and permanent smell of vanilla lotion, might not have been far off.But after that, it was quiet. They walked slowly, barefoot on cool tile, the house creaking softly around them like it was falling asleep. Voices had dimmed behind bedroom doors. Her mom had gone to bed. Even the music had stopped. It was just them. He led her toward the back of the house, the older part,where the windows were thinner, the light more golden. The walls here were lined with photos, decades of family birthdays and anniversaries and blurry Christmas mornings.They paused in front of one without speaking. It was him,probably sixteen, holding a sparkler, grinning with cake frosting on his shirt.

“I looked like I had no idea what to do with myself,” he said, voice low, eyes on the frame.

“You looked like you were trying really hard not to smile.”

“I probably was.”

She tilted her head. “You were kind of quiet back then.”

“I’m still quiet,” he said, glancing at her. “People just stopped pointing it out.”

They stood there for a second too long. Then she shifted, brushing a finger along the edge of the photo frame.

“I used to love this hallway,” she said softly. “When I was little, I’d walk back and forth during parties pretending I was going somewhere. Just to be around it. The noise. The energy.”

He looked at her. Really looked.

“And now?” he asked.

“Now I think I came here to be around it without being in it.”

Luigi nodded slowly, like he got it. Like maybe he felt that way sometimes too.Then he turned, opened the last door on the right.The back den. She remembered it as the TV room,low couch, dark wood shelves, the leftover blankets always balled up in the corner. It looked the same now. Familiar. Safe. He stepped inside, but didn’t turn on the light. Just reached for the lamp in the corner and let it cast that soft amber glow across the room. She stood in the doorway for a second. He sat on the edge of the couch, leaned forward on his knees, looking out the window into the dark. She joined him, curling one leg under the other, the cushion dipping between them. Neither of them spoke for a moment.The quiet wasn’t empty. It pulsed with unsaid things. She turned her head toward him.

“You’re easier to talk to now,” she said.

He didn’t look at her. Just smiled gently. “You never tried before.”

“Maybe I was scared.”

His eyes met hers. No teasing this time.

“You don’t seem scared now.”

“I’m not.”

He nodded once.

Then, quietly: “Good.”

Her breath caught in her throat. She didn’t know what to do with the way he was looking at her. Like she wasn’t just some girl at the end of a long day. Like she was the thing he hadn’t realized he’d been waiting to find again. The silence stretched. And then he reached forward not dramatically, just instinctively and brushed a loose strand of hair from her cheek.

His fingers were warm. Calloused at the tips. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just looked at him. Let it sit there. Let it be what it was. And when he dropped his hand and leaned back again, she felt the absence like a string gently tugging at her chest.

They didn’t kiss.

Not yet.

But something settled between them anyway.Something neither of them had words for.

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This is just the first part I’m hoping you guys like it, still feel like I can do a lot better lol if you guys have any feedback I’d be glad to hear it (: someone please lmk if this feels rushed (:

@luigisbambinaaa @luigis-wetdream @multi-culti-girl @mangionesdaisy @snoopy184 @mashkatzi