The last notes of their dinner conversation faded, leaving a comfortable silence in their wake.
The clatter of cutlery had stilled, and Matteo leaned back, the simple act of setting his plate aside feeling like a deliberate closing of the day's formalities.
A soft, contented sigh escaped him as he stretched his arms, the fabric of his dress shirt pulling taut across his shoulders.
Felix lingered at the table, his chin propped in his hand, watching him.
That familiar, soft, and playful look was in his eyes—the one that never failed to make Matteo's chest tighten with a feeling both thrilling and profoundly peaceful.
"You're going to go change, aren't you?" Felix asked, his voice a low murmur.
He tilted his head, his fingers idly drumming a silent rhythm against the polished wood of the table.
Matteo didn't answer with words. Instead, a faint, knowing smile touched his lips—a private expression meant for Felix alone.