Fermented Desires

The Boys

It took just over an hour for Isabella to unpack and arrange her room. She'd brought a few personal decorations from her old home—a string of fairy lights, a small collection of potted plants, and a framed photo of her and her brother as kids. By the time she stepped back to admire her work, her room felt warm and inviting. It was hers, her little sanctuary in this new world.

"Whew, now this is a room," she muttered with a satisfied smile. Glancing at the clock, she realized it was nearing six. An idea struck her.

"Maybe I should make dinner," she mused. It seemed like a perfect gesture to thank her new roommates for letting her stay. Though she hadn't met two of them yet, she wanted to make a good impression.

After changing into a pair of shorts and an oversized t-shirt, Isabella headed to the kitchen. The fridge was impressively stocked, brimming with fresh ingredients. Her fingers brushed over the assortment, settling on chicken thighs, spinach, and cream. Tuscan Chicken—her grandmother's recipe—felt right for the occasion.

The aroma of garlic and sun-dried tomatoes filled the kitchen as Isabella stirred the simmering cream into the skillet. The scent alone felt like a warm embrace, a fleeting memory coming to life. A dish that had once filled her childhood with comfort and warmth, back when love still had a tangible form—soft wrinkled hands, a knowing smile, and the quiet understanding only her Nonna had ever given her.

She could still picture it: her grandmother's small frame moving effortlessly around the kitchen, humming an old melody as she spooned sauce over golden-seared chicken. Isabella and Nikko would sit at the counter, impatiently waiting for the first bite, knowing their Nonna would always sneak them a taste before dinner was officially served.

"Food is love," she had always said, her voice firm but kind. "And love must be shared, bella mia."

Isabella swallowed hard, the wooden spoon hovering over the sauce as she blinked away the emotion creeping up her throat. This meal was more than just a dish—it was a tribute, a silent acknowledgment of the woman who had seen her, defended her, when no one else dared.

She remembered the night her parents had first announced the arrangement, how the room had been suffocating with expectations and duty. Isabella had sat frozen, unable to protest, but her grandmother had spoken for her.

"You cannot force a heart into submission," she had said, her aged but unwavering voice cutting through the tension. "Even I had to learn that the hard way. But if you do this to her, she will never forgive you. And one day, you may regret the silence you are forcing upon her now."

For the first time, Isabella's mother had hesitated. Even her father had not been able to meet his mother's gaze. It hadn't stopped them in the end, but it had been enough to remind Isabella that she wasn't completely alone.

Now, standing in the kitchen with the scent of rosemary and garlic curling through the air, she wondered if her grandmother would be proud. If she would approve of the silent rebellion Isabella was carving for herself, one choice at a time.

"For you, Nonna."

She set to work, the sound of her knife against the cutting board blending with the music she blasted through the kitchen's speaker system. Tierra Whack's "CLONES" filled the air as Isabella chopped, stirred, and sang along, letting the rhythm guide her movements. She was so engrossed she didn't hear the front door open.

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**Ashton's POV**

The drive back from the store had been easy, the evening sun casting a warm glow over the city. Cameron sat in the passenger seat, scrolling through his phone as they pulled into the driveway. As soon as Ashton cut the engine, they both froze, their ears catching the faint notes of music coming from the house.