The service was chaos.
Chaos was a given in Ever’s kitchen. Chaos in layers, like mille-feuille but made of burnt sugar and existential dread. On any given night, a soufflé could collapse, a garnish could vanish, and Carmy might lose his mind over the angle of a microgreen.
But no one—absolutely no one—had anticipated this.
“Okay, okay, don’t freak out."
Natalie announced breathlessly, bursting into the kitchen like someone trying to defuse a bomb, holding a covered baby carrier in both hands.
Carmy looked up from the pass, deadpan.
“Is that what I think it is?”
“Her sitter bailed. She didn’t want to leave her home alone, obviously. And I thought, ‘I’ve survived the Berzatto brothers. How hard can a baby be?"
She held up the carrier like Simba on Pride Rock.
“So. She’s here. Our kitchen baby."
Inside the carrier, the baby had already begun to squirm, cheeks flushed pink with the first notes of a cry.
Sydney stared. “Is the baby—crying?”
“Yep." Fak said. “That’s what babies do. Also poop. And throw up. Sometimes all at once. I read a blog once about it. Or maybe it was a Yelp review.”
The infant let out a sharp wail again.
Everyone flinched—except Luca.
He didn’t say a word. Just untied his apron with one hand and stepped away from the pastry station like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like some pastry deity had programmed him with a hidden subroutine titled Soothing Baby 101.
“Can I?” He asked, voice soft but assured.
Natalie nodded, stunned, and before anyone could object, he was already unfastening the carrier and lifting the baby out with startling ease. One arm cradled the tiny body. The other adjusted the blanket over her toes.
He scooped the baby into his arms like she was no heavier than a loaf of bread. She fit against him perfectly, one tiny fist curled near his chest, nose buried into the starch of his white jacket.
The room collectively exhaled.
You were halfway through organizing microgreens when you looked up and—oh.
Luca wasn’t just holding her. He was holding her. Like it was second nature. One hand at her back, the other cradling her like something he’d never drop. The lines of stress on his face had softened. His body swayed gently, instinctively rocking her.
“She’s…not crying anymore." Sydney whispered, clearly bewildered.
Luca swayed slightly on his heels, instinctively rocking.
“She’s just tired.”
“I didn’t know you were good with kids." You said quietly, approaching him as the others tried to return to normal.
Luca glanced over at you, lips twitching.
“You never asked." He said with a shrug.
"Had a niece. She used to only sleep if I held her during dough prep.”
That image—Luca kneading dough one-handed with a baby asleep on his shoulder, nearly broke your brain.
You didn’t know what to say to that. So you stood there. Next to him. In the lull of heat and citrus steam, with the softest moment tucked between the chaos of service.
Luca turned slightly toward you, eyes dipping to where your fingers lightly brushed the baby’s blanket.
“She likes you.” He said, barely above a whisper.
You looked up. “I think she likes you more.”
And for just a moment, he smiled like he wanted you to say that.
“That makes two of you, then?” He said casually.
You blinked “What?”
“Hm?”
He looked at you, all too innocent. The faintest smirk tugged at one corner of his mouth, like he knew exactly what he was doing and wasn’t sorry for a second of it.
Between you, the baby let out a soft coo, blinking up as if she’d timed it perfectly, like an accidental Cupid.
Fak, unhelpful as always, gasped dramatically behind the counter. “Wait, did I just hear tension? Was that—flirtation? Is this—slow burn?”
Sydney elbowed him hard. “Not now.”
And before either of you could speak again, the baby let out a sleepy coo and reached up, tiny hand grazing Luca’s jaw like she was tracing it from memory.
And somewhere, far in the kitchen, Fak whispered:
“Someone get this man a stroller and a ring.”