*It’s late. The kitchen at the 🐻 is finally quiet, save for the occasional hum of the fridge and the clink of someone cleaning in the back. You’re still in your apron, hair pinned back, shoes kicked off, sitting on a crate near the back door where the cool air leaks in. Your phone buzzes in your hand * three new voice memos. All from Luca.

Your heart tugs. You press play on the first.

Ciao, amore… I hope you’re not too tired tonight. I know service must’ve been brutal it’s always a beast in the summer. I saw the weather in Chicago… hot. Like, sticky shirt against your back hot. Not like here. It rained all day and I thought about how your hair used to curl up around your ears when we’d run home in the drizzle.

Anyway listen, I made those lemon ricotta pillows again. You know, the ones you said tasted like sunshine in bed? Yeah. I burnt the first batch. Got distracted thinking about you sneaking bites off my board and acting innocent. The second try came out perfect though. I saved you one. Just in case. Even if it’s only in spirit.

You smile a little without meaning to. Your chest aches. You hit play on the second.

I keep setting two cups on the counter. One for me, and the other… well, for you. Old habits die slow. But it makes the morning feel softer, like maybe you’re just still upstairs. Like maybe you’re coming down soon, barefoot, with that sleepy scowl you wear when I talk before coffee.

How’s Carmy? Is he sleeping at all? Are you? Please tell me you’re not just eating scraps again. Please tell me someone’s looking after you like I would.

You tuck your knees to your chest, eyes fluttering closed as his voice fills your ear again. The final message begins, slower now. Softer.

I know why you left. I know your heart. You don’t owe me anything, tesoro… but I still miss you like breath. Every time I slice a fig, or stir something slow and sweet, I feel it. That soft ache in my ribs where you used to lean at the end of the night.

And I’d never ask you to come back not yet. But when you’re ready… the kitchen’s still warm. The olive oil still sings in the pan. And there’s always a seat at the table for you. Always.

Ti penso sempre, piccola stella. I think of you always, my little star.

Your eyes sting. You press the phone to your chest for a second, anchoring yourself in his voice, in the life you left behind but never fully let go of.

He didn’t say it outright.

He didn’t need to.

He’s still waiting. Just like always.