I poke his chest. “Define activity. Is this code for sex in the woods, or am I about to learn basket weaving?”
Please say sex in the woods.
He just gives me the Dario Look. “It’s the kind where you stop asking questions.”
“You keep saying that.”
“You keep asking questions.”
I snort, shake my head, grab his hand. “Fine. Mystery activity. But if this ends with us naked and pinecones in our asses, I’m blaming you.”
He laughs, and I let him lead me. I’m not scared. Not really. Not anymore.
We get back to the trailhead and I stop dead, because the ground has been taken hostage by a literal picnic spread. Blanket, basket, wine, fancy cheese, fruit, sandwiches, warm bread, are you kidding me? I stare at it, half expecting a film crew to pop out of the bushes and ask if I believe in love at first sight or just have a carb kink.
I round on Dario, hands on hips. “When did you? How?”
He gives me that smug little mobster shrug. “Told you I had arrangements.”
“Dario, this is…” I can’t even finish. “This is too much. I feel like I should start a gratitude journal.”
He shakes his head, perfectly calm. “It’s not too much.”
“You keep saying that. Every time you do something big, I try to self-destruct and you just… don’t let me.”
He leans in, deadly soft. “Because you keep underestimating what you deserve.”
That shuts me up. Completely. My brain does the thing where it short-circuits between wanting to weep and wanting to reconfigure my internal organs into a welcome mat.
He leads me to the blanket, all casual, starts unpacking the basket like he hasn’t just detonated my entire nervous system.
I sit, cross-legged, reach for a strawberry, and bite it so I have something to do besides spiral.
“My mother used to say I was too much,” I blurt, because trauma waits for no polite segue. “That wanting things, attention, affection, a goddamn sandwich, made me exhausting. Made me hard to love.”
“Your mother was wrong.”
“Yeah, I know that. Now.” I stare at the food like it’ll save me. “But sometimes, when someone gives me things, I hear her voice. Saying I don’t deserve it. That I should want less.”
He drops the cheese, turns to me fully, dangerous move, because his eyes go straight for my soul. “Look at me.”
I do. I wish I didn’t. It’s too much.
“You’re not too much. Never have been. The only problem was people too small to meet you.” He leans in, voice like velvet over knives. “I’m not them. I spent months wanting to give you things and chickening out. Let me make it up to you. Please.”
A tear escapes. I swipe at it, snorting out a laugh. “Jesus Christ, I’m crying over a picnic. Who does that? Am I broken, or just really, really horny for brie?”
He laughs. “It’s not about the picnic.”
“I know.” I breathe in. Out. Let myself settle. “Fine. Yes. Spoil me. But if I get used to this, you’re stuck with me.”
“Deal.”
“But mostly I’m saying yes because that cheese looks illegal and I want to know if it’s as good as it looks.”
He hands me the cheese like it’s a sacred offering. I eat it, grinning, let myself be spoiled, let him see me soft. Just this once.
And in the back of my head, I think: this mess, this joy, this goddamn perfect picnic is what I nearly missed.
