Noel got home just before five.
The apartment greeted him with that familiar stillness—warm light on the floor, Luca Jr. already perched on the armrest like he owned the place.
Noel kicked off his shoes, set his keys down, and exhaled.
The day clung to him still—the bakery's cinnamon sweetness, the walk home through crowded sidewalks, the way the afternoon had stretched long and quiet. He'd enjoyed it, the solitude.
But now, standing in the doorway of their space, he felt the shift. The stillness wasn't lonely. It was just waiting.
"Alright," he murmured, mostly to himself. "Let's see what we can do."
He wandered into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and stared.
A lonely carton of eggs.
Half a lemon.
Butter.
Three different sauces Luca had bought with ambition and never touched again.
Noel blinked.
Then he opened the freezer.
Ice. More ice.
He shut it slowly, like closing a disappointing book.
Luca Jr. padded in behind him, tail flicking.
