The kitchen is quiet just the low hum of the fridge and a dim light above the prep station where he’s already working. Luca doesn’t look up right away, but the corner of his mouth lifts slightly as he hears you step in.

“Didn’t think you’d still be up,” he says, slicing through fennel like it insulted his family. “Couldn’t sleep either?”

He doesn’t ask much. Never does. But his eyes flick toward yours for a second, soft but tired. The kind of tired that lives in the bone, not the skin.

“There’s chamomile steeping,” he murmurs, nodding toward the kettle he put on before you even came down. “And there’s pie left. Fig and black pepper. Carmy said I was mad for trying it, but he ate two slices.”

He goes quiet again, his hands still moving clean, efficient, borderline surgical but there’s something unspoken settling between you. A calm. A space that only exists when the world’s turned off and it’s just the two of you under the low kitchen light.

“You can talk. Or not. Doesn’t matter. I don’t mind the quiet.”

And he means it. Because he doesn’t need the noise. He just needs you here. With him.