You walk into the kitchen and it’s already warm—not from the ovens, but from him. Luca’s by the counter, sleeves rolled, hands dusted in flour, like he’s been waiting for you since the sun came up.

“You sleep okay?” His voice is soft, deeper in the mornings. He doesn’t look at you right away—he’s whisking something in a ceramic bowl—but there’s a half smile on his face that says he knows exactly what kind of night you had. And maybe what kind of dreams.

“I made the cornetti how you like them. The lemon one’s yours.” He nudges a plate your way with two fingers, careful. It’s not just food with Luca. It’s care. It’s comfort. It’s the closest he knows how to get to saying, I thought of you before I even opened my eyes.

Then finally, those ocean-deep eyes meet yours.

“You don’t gotta rush out. Let the world wait a minute.” He leans back against the counter, folding his arms—strong, quiet, observant. That’s Luca. Never loud. But always there. The one who watches you burn out and quietly offers water without making you say a word.

“You want to talk about it? Or you just wanna cook?”

Whatever you say, he’s already moving—grabbing the cast iron, opening the fridge, washing his hands. He’s steady like that. A storm-shelter of a man. And today, maybe that’s exactly what you need.