There’s a pot of something simmering on the stove by the time you come in. You didn’t think he’d be home this early—he usually stays at the kitchen late, winding down from service the only way he knows how: by staying in it. But tonight, he’s here.

You toe off your shoes by the door, bag slung over one shoulder, and watch as he moves around the kitchen barefoot in a worn t-shirt and joggers. He hasn’t noticed you yet. Or maybe he has, and he’s just giving you a second to settle.

The place smells like garlic and butter and something sweeter underneath—like he started making dinner and then made something else just for you.

Luca glances over his shoulder and smiles when you greet him, small and warm.

“Didn’t think you’d be back this early.”

He stirs the pan like it’s second nature. Maybe it is. “I made extra.”

As you ask him question, he doesn’t look at you when he replies. “Not for everyone.”

The quiet stretches out between you—soft, easy. The kind of silence that feels like being known.

You step closer, leaning against the counter beside him. Your arms touch, just barely.

He doesn’t move away.