Dinner was a comforting blur of laughter and stories — Alma fussed over Sophia like a favorite niece, insisting she take second and third helpings of the cheesy, tangy enchiladas, while Nate watched them both with an unmistakable fondness that made Sophia’s stomach flip in ways no paparazzi rumor ever could.
They moved from the island to the cozy dining nook by the wide windows, plates half-finished, glasses of water and lime spritzes clinking softly.
At one point, Alma excused herself to tidy the kitchen — “I pretend I let him help, but I must clean after him, always,” she said, making Sophia giggle — and they were finally alone.
Nate reached across the table, brushing his knuckles over Sophia’s wrist. “You look… content. That’s new. Should I thank the enchiladas or the company?”
She
