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I'm in his house.

With his daughter.

The Earth has flipped on his axis. It's hurling towards the Sun at such a crazy rate that all of our brains are slowly turning in our skulls. I think.

Don't ask me if that's scientifically possible, I don't want to know.

I'm in his stupidly large kitchen, the one I remember Sofia making drinks in. I still regret drinking that night. But instead of vodka and beers filling the air, it's pasta noodles and homemade pasta sauce that Luca and Carina made.

Carina is his daughter. I never expected that outcome. I don't know if I just didn't expect her to be a three year old, or if I didn't expect her to be Luca's daughter.

That's so weird to say.

"Can I do anything?" I ask Morelli. Sitting at the island counter with my hands in my lap is boring, and makes me feel a little useless. I tug at the sleeves of the black hoodie, the ends falling way past my fingertips. His hoodie, I remember. It smells like oranges.

What a fucking day this has been.

He shakes his head, his back to me because he's facing the stove. "If you want, you can help Carina set the table. I'd rather you rest, but you seem to be getting restless."

I manage a small smile, getting out of my seat.

"Carina!" He calls out just loud enough to reach upstairs, "Come help!"

"Okay!" She responds, her small voice barely audible. I can hear her feet patting as she walks down the stairs, her hand trailing the railing. When she comes into view, I have to take a sharp breath.

She looks a lot like Luca. Her eyes are the same shade of brown, her smile holds the same crinkles in the outer corners of her eyes. Her nose isn't his, and neither is her hair. Her hair is lighter than his, and her roots are even lighter. It's also not as curly, it's wavier like mine.

When I see her, she sees me, and her eyebrows jump up. I almost smile wider at the sight. She looks at me inquisitively, then she looks at her dad.

"Papà," she turns and runs to Luca. Her tiny frame is just tall enough for her to hug her arms around his legs, and she looks up at him, "Chi è quello?"

I freeze. It's the same phrase I heard that lady say, that day in Luca's office.

Holy shit.

They have the same hair.

Holy shit.

Even if Carina's hair is still barely growing out of her head, it's the same. I stare as Luca whispers something to Carina while stirring a pot of boiling pasta.

That woman is Carina's mother. But she's not here right now.

I should so sign up to be an FBI agent.

"Hana," Luca catches my attention, and I almost flinch when I leave my thoughts. "You can set the plates, they're too heavy for Carina to carry." He gestures to a cabinet and I walk over, opening it.

It's filled with two types of plates, one stack that's perfectly white and another stack that looks like it was painted in a 3rd grade ceramics class.

Did Carina make these?

I mean, who else would've?

I wonder if she likes painting. I reach up to grab three plates when I feel a presence behind me. One that smells like lemon cake. Morelli. "She likes the red plate for pasta," he whispers, his breath hot on my neck, and I almost forget what a horrible day today has been.

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