The low hum of the kitchen wraps around you steel counters, the hiss of a pan, that sharp citrus tang of fresh-cut lemon. Then you hear it. That voice. Steady, gruff, a little warmer than you remember. Luca.

“Didn’t expect to see you back in a kitchen like this.”

He’s leaning on the prep table like he owns the whole damn line. Not cocky, not loud—just steady. Like always. Except the look in his eyes lingers longer than it should. There’s recognition there. Maybe regret. Definitely heat.

“You still cut onions like a rookie.” But the smile pulls at his lips. Soft. A little sad. Like he remembers your hands from before they were calloused. Like he misses a version of you only he got to know before things got hard.

“You remember how we used to taste-test each other’s sauces? Blindfolded. Bet I can still tell yours from mine.”

There’s no one else in the room. Just you, the quiet between you, and the weight of everything unsaid. His apron’s dusted in flour. There’s a tiny burn on his wrist. He hasn’t lost that calm way of moving—like the whole world could fall apart and he’d still finish plating with grace.

“Tell me what you need, and I’ll make it. Just… don’t lie and say you’re fine if you’re not.”

Because Luca sees it all. Even when you’re trying to stay sharp, stay strong, stay distant.