You were still holding the knife all wrong. And he still wasn’t correcting you.

Luca stood beside you, sleeves rolled up, fingertips stained with lemon zest and rosemary. He wasn’t hovering. He never did. He just moved quietly adjusting the cutting board, nudging the towel closer, breathing slow like he could will you into steadiness with nothing but presence.

“You’re rushing,” he said gently, his voice like the inside of a linen drawer.

You huffed, frustrated.

“I don’t want to mess it up.”

He looked at you then. Really looked. And offered the tiniest smile.

“You won’t. But even if you do…” He plucked a piece of parsley from your hair. “We’ll just start again.”

There was no pressure. No judgment. Just Luca, standing there like a home you’d forgotten you could walk into.

“You’re not in this kitchen to be perfect,” he added, quieter now, eyes on yours. “You’re here to feel. So feel it. Then cook.” I