Solienne

It began with a storm - not the kind outside, but the kind made of blankets, mismatched socks, and four brothers rearranging a living room like soldiers building a fort.

Movie night, they'd called it.

Except "movie night" in the Moretti house meant moving half the house.

Francesco was dragging pillows from every bedroom, complaining about the lack of aesthetic cohesion. "You can't have floral and geometric prints on the same couch, it's offensive."

Antonio rolled his eyes and tossed him a blanket. "Shut up and make the popcorn."

Giovanni was already in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, trying to find the balance between "just enough butter" and "you're going to need heart medication after this."

Isabella hovered awkwardly at first, arms folded, unsure of where to insert herself. But when Antonio tossed her a knitted throw blanket and said, "You get to pick the movie - that's the most important job," she blinked and nodded, clutching the fabric like it anchored her.

They dimmed the lights. The string of warm fairy bulbs draped over the curtain rail cast the room in a soft amber glow. A candle flickered faintly on the coffee table - lavender and sandalwood. Someone had lit it without making a big deal of it. The scent made the room feel warm in her chest.

She sat curled up on the left side of the couch, one leg tucked under the other, her face lit by the opening scene of the movie she'd picked - something animated, quiet, a little sad, a little beautiful.

Francesco sat cross-legged on the floor, arm slung over a beanbag, while Antonio leaned against the opposite armrest, hands behind his head. Giovanni, stretched diagonally like he had no bones, occupied the floor next to her, sipping from a chipped mug of tea.

Twenty minutes in, the movie rolled into its quiet rhythm. There was the occasional crunch of popcorn, the soft clink of a spoon in a mug, the rustle of someone adjusting a blanket.

Then - footsteps.

Slow, measured, and unmistakably him.

Leonardo entered the room without saying a word.

He didn't need to.

He wore a grey button-down with the sleeves rolled just below his elbows, and a faint shadow of ink stained the edge of one cuff. His eyes swept the room once - taking in the chaos, the cushions, the flickering lights - before settling on the only empty chair: the leather armchair in the corner.

He walked over, sat down, and rested his forearms lightly on the arms of the chair.

Isabella didn't even realise she was holding her breath until he sat.

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.

He didn't speak. Just watched the screen, one leg crossed over the other, like he'd always been there.

"Didn't think you'd join," Antonio said quietly.

Leonardo shrugged, not looking away from the movie. "Didn't think you'd use every pillow in the house."

"We're artists," Francesco replied, gesturing to the chaos.

Leonardo's brow twitched. "Is that what this is?"

"It's called ambience," Giovanni chimed in, voice low.

There was a pause. Then Francesco leaned sideways, resting his chin on the edge of the couch near Isabella.

"So. Bella," he said, voice too casual. "Be honest. Which one of us is your favourite yet?"

She blinked. "I-I don't have a favourite."

"Liar."

"I'm not lying."

"You definitely are. I saw you smile at Antonio when he handed you the remote. It was a whole moment."

Antonio didn't look up. "She smiled because I didn't fight her on the movie choice."

"Or maybe," Francesco said dramatically, "you're just the calmest of us and she sees you as her emotional anchor."

She looked down, cheeks pink. "Can you stop psychoanalyzing me?"

Francesco grinned. "Aha! That's a deflection."

"Francesco..." she warned.

"I'm just saying," he said, nudging her sock with his finger, "you get this look when you're pretending not to enjoy being teased."

"I do not."

"You do," Giovanni added helpfully.

"You're imagining it."

Francesco leaned closer, stage-whispering: "Your ears are turning red."

"They always do," she muttered.

"Adorable," he said under his breath.

She groaned and yanked the throw blanket up over her face. "Make it stop."

"You're blushing."

"I'm hiding."

"Still blushing."

"Leonardo... digli di smettere..."
(Leonardo... tell him to stop...)

It came out without thinking.

Soft. Muffled. Whined just slightly.

The room stilled.

Leonardo blinked once, slowly, his eyes flicking from the screen to her blanket-covered form.

There was a pause.

Then, in his quiet, calm voice:
"Basta."
(Enough.)

Francesco froze. Giovanni coughed into his mug. Antonio blinked, visibly holding back a smirk.

Isabella peeked out from the edge of the blanket. "...Seriously?"

Leonardo's voice didn't waver. "You asked."

She bit the inside of her cheek to hide the smile.

It didn't work.

Her lips curved anyway — small, shy, but real.

"Grazie..." she murmured.

Leonardo inclined his head once.

And returned to the movie.

The film played on. She lost track of the plot about halfway through  too warm, too tired. The scent of the candle mixed with the distant sound of popcorn crunches and her brothers' breathing. She hadn't felt this safe in years.

Antonio shifted slightly beside her, and she leaned, without realising, until her shoulder pressed softly into his.

He stilled.

Then, wordlessly, draped a blanket over the two of them, tugging it gently so it covered her too.

Her head dipped, rested gently against his arm.

No one said a word.

Francesco looked over once, eyes soft.

Giovanni didn't even pretend to tease.

And from the armchair, Leonardo watched with the faintest crease of something unreadable at the corner of his mouth.

Not a smile.

But close.

The fairy lights flickered above them.

The movie ended.

She didn't see it.

By then, Isabella had already drifted off - curled in a nest of warmth, still blushing slightly in her sleep.