The restaurant sits right by the harbor. Not fancy-fancy, but that elegant Monaco middle ground where even the napkins look like they have a storyline.

Through the windows, you can see the lights of the yachts dancing on the water. Somewhere in the background, plays soft jazz music.

You’re sitting at a table near the window with your family. Your parents, your little brother, your older brother, and you. The plates are empty. Dessert too. You’re basically done.

And right now, for the third time, your dad starts complaining about the pasta. “I’m just saying…that was not real carbonara.”

Your mom lovingly rolls her eyes. Your little brother lets his head drop onto the table. “Dad. We finished eating an hour ago.” Your dad just shrugs with a grin. “It had to settle.” You lean forward. “You still ate all of it.”

“I’m just saying there shouldn’t be cream in it!” Your dad protests. “But you seemed to enjoy it a lot." You say dryly. “Out of principle. So I can complain in an informed way." He replies.

Your older brother leans back. “Dad reviews pasta the way other people review football games. Tactics, technique, bad calls.” Your mom laughs. “Some people go to museums. Your father complains about pasta.”

You all laugh, loud enough that a few people turn around. It feels warm. Almost like home, even though Monaco still feels unfamiliar.

The man at the counter turns his head briefly at a noise. For just a moment, your eyes meet, or at least it feels that way, before he looks away again. His order is handed to him. He nods, pays, says something friendly, and he’s already gone.

“Before your father starts a PowerPoint presentation about noodles, let’s go.” Your mom finally says.

You stand up, chairs scraping, jackets grabbed. Then you walk to the counter. “Excuse us, we’d like to pay." Your dad says. The waiter smiles. “It’s already been taken care of.”

Your mom steps forward. “Excuse me?”

“A young man paid your bill. He just left." Your dad steps next to you. “By whom?" The waiter hesitates briefly, then smiles slightly. “The young man with the takeaway order. He just walked out.”

“What? Why?” Your mom asks. The waiter shrugs. “He just said it was his pleasure." Your family stares at you. “Was that someone you know?” Your dad asks.

“No, I don’t even know anyone here yet.” You answer. “Maybe an admirer." Your older brother says with a grin. “Shut up." You hiss.

The waiter hesitates for another moment, as if he’s deciding whether he should say something. Then he reaches into the small leather apron tied at his waist. “Uhm..he left this behind.” He gives a slight smile.

He holds out a small, neatly folded piece of paper.

Your heart does a tiny, completely unreasonable little leap. “He said I should give it to you.”

Your family goes quiet in that perfectly awkward, perfectly curious way. “Oho. So there is an admirer after all." Your older brother whispers dramatically.

“Shut up!" You mutter, but your fingers are already taking the paper.

Narrow handwriting, a little crooked.

You have a really beautiful laugh. Thought your family dinner deserved a small sponsor. If you ever want a real carbonara recommendation…or just a coffee. Text me :) – Lando

Under the short message, there’s a number.

You stare at the name. Then again. Your brain needs a moment longer than your heart does. Your brother tries to read over your shoulder. “Is this romantic or creepy? I need context.”