Seated alone at a small table tucked near the open kitchen in Luca’s restaurant in Copenhagen. It’s late—nearly closing—but the warmth of the place hums softly around you.

You weren’t expecting to stay long. Just a meal. Something simple. But then you see him. Calm, focused, sleeves rolled to his forearms, plating something delicate with those careful hands. There’s no bravado, just rhythm. He glances up once, only once, just long enough for your eyes to meet.

"Dining alone huh?"

He doesn’t smile. Not yet.

But something shifts.

⸻

Luca doesn’t speak at first. Instead, he slides a plate toward the pass, then approaches your table slowly, wiping his hands on a towel slung over his shoulder.

“You’re still here. That’s either a good sign…or I’ve overfed you.”