Liza wonders if he’d been contemplating this move at all — if he’d maybe even decided the moment she texted him that tonight would be the night he finally made a move on her, and then chickened out at the last minute. But that thought quickly vanishes as it comes, because Santino isn’t that calculated. He is genuine and good and he’s remained that way since she’s known him, since they were twelve years old running through the fields of the ranch while their fathers talked about business and politics and all of that other grown up stuff the two of them didn’t give a shit about. His earnest sincerity and integrity are why they’ve never managed to cross the line they’ve drawn, and why Liza’s never just taken matters into her own hands and gotten what she wants from him. He is the one thing in her life that’s remained untarnished by her erratic behavior and she’s so afraid that if they go too far, she’ll ruin him too.
Not that they haven’t come close. It seems like every time she’s alone with Santino they get a little too close for comfort, really, and their breath will mix together and their noses will nearly bump before they come back to themselves, or he’ll look at her so intensely like he’d done just now and she’ll break her gaze away from him so she can stop feeling like she wants to shed her own skin. But that hasn’t happened in quite some time and Liza realizes, as they’re taking the road to his home and he tells her he’s got coffee on already, that this is the first time in a long time that the two of them have been alone together. The thought is crippling in itself, and Liza’s quick to get another quip in before she freezes up and chokes on her own sentimentality. “Aw shucks, honey, coffee just for me? I must be the luckiest girl in the world,” she teases him, putting on an old-timey Lucille Ball-esque accent to go along with it just to make sure any shakiness in her voice is covered and hidden away.
The home they pull into is nice — on the smaller side from her perspective, maybe, but well maintained and much better than his old cot at the bunkhouse. Liza marvels at it, a sense of pride washing over her at how well he’s done for himself, and then dread follows suit at the fact that she hadn’t been around to see it. She’s broken from her reverie when he opens the passenger’s side door, though, and she blinks at him once, twice — and then obediently hands him her shoes before situating herself to get out of the car. “Why, you gonna stab me with a heel? Probably would’ve been smarter to take me out into the mountains if that were the case, not very bright to make the scene of the crime your own home.”
Was he foolish to bask in her light? Maybe, but it was a light he couldn’t avoid. Especially when she’s here with him now, opting for silliness rather than her usual steadfast harshness. A harshness he boded with gently, a harshness he would never question because she was her and he was him and no matter what, they made sense. And this made sense too, the jokes and the laughter, all under a darkened sky as they approach his home. All he wants to do is savor the moment for as long as he could, even as he’s stepping out of the car and moving to her side.
In an instant, she’s joking about her heel and, fittingly, murder. Santino can’t help but laugh, feeling like all his insides are suddenly glowing and golden-colored. “How do you know this is my main home? I might have many...” He argues in response, his brows quirking upward in amusement. “This could very easily be the murder home or whatever you’d like to call it. Also, the heel is just too easy. Come on, Liza.” Laughter weaves through his words, the apples of his cheeks burning as he leads her up to the front of his house. It’s nothing fancy, nothing that could measure up to what Liza Ward truly deserves, but it’s enough for now. He hopes a pot of coffee will suffice for the lackluster nature of his living situation.
He plucks his keys from his back pocket and carefully pokes his housekey through the lock. And, in classic Santino fashion, he holds the door open for Liza. “After you, mi querida.” He says warmly, nodding to the inside of his home. His keys are placed on the table beside the front door, Santino closing it once he’s also inside. He removes his jacket soon after, hanging it from the hook near the front. “Kitchen’s to the right.” He says, padding behind her before circling into the kitchen. The pot was settled on the counter, right where he left it before heading out to pick Liza up.
“I can’t remember if you’ve ever been here before. Is that bad?” It has been over a decade since they were alone together so, in hindsight, the question was justified. “I bought this place around when I came back from New York. Mi madre insisted on decorating the place.” Which is why it looked so homey on the inside, truth be told. After pouring Liza a mug, he places it gently onto the dining room table before sitting opposite of her. That same nervousness from earlier rises to the surface once more. “What’s it like being back, hm?” He asks, though a part of him feels she may not want to discuss it. He might’ve asked out of instinctual politeness, knowing his own mother would shake her head at him if he allowed the question to go unasked. “You don’t have to answer. I’ve got a cigar with your name on it if you prefer that instead.”
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