Months passed.
Then weeks folded quietly into them, like pages turned without ceremony.
The Rossi pastry shop breathed again.
The oven stayed warm.
Customers returned.
Laughter—careful at first—found its way back behind the counter.
Marcello healed slowly but steadily. He sat by the window now, reading the paper, scolding Andrea for crumbs on the floor like nothing had ever broken.
Andrea stayed in school.
Lucia worked with renewed purpose.
From the outside, life looked… normal.
Too normal.
Isabella was the only one who felt the quiet wrongness of it.
She woke tired, even after long nights of sleep.
Food tasted dull.
The air felt heavier than it should.
She blamed stress.
She blamed exhaustion.
But deep down, she knew.
Something—someone—was missing.
Sometimes it hit her without warning.
A guard's uniform passing on the street.
The scent of clean soap and metal.
The way the doorbell rang at the shop and for one foolish second, her heart leapt.
Not customers.
Never him.
She missed his smile—the gentle one he wore only when he thought no one was watching.
His dark hair, always slightly untidy no matter how strict the uniform rules were.
The way he stood—straight, steady, like nothing in the world could push him over.
She missed how safe his presence made everything feel.
How quiet chaos became when he was near.
At night, Isabella lay awake and stared at the ceiling.
Why does it hurt like this? she wondered.
They had never said the words.
Never crossed the line.
Never promised anything aloud.
So why did his absence feel like grief?
She pressed a hand to her chest, heart fluttering strangely.
"I'm being silly," she whispered to the dark.
But the dark didn't argue.
Lucia noticed first.
"You've been pale lately," she said one morning, setting a plate in front of her. "Are you eating enough?"
"I am," Isabella replied, forcing a smile.
Marcello studied her over his glasses. "You're thinking too much again."
Andrea said nothing.
But he watched her carefully, like someone guarding a fragile thing.
That evening, Isabella stood outside the shop after closing, apron folded in her hands.
The streetlights flickered on.
She imagined Xavier there—leaning against the wall, arms crossed, pretending not to watch her while watching her all the same.
Her chest tightened.
"I miss you," she whispered.
Far away—beyond streets, borders, and orders—
Xavier Hernandez paused mid-step, an unfamiliar ache settling deep in his bones.
He didn't know why.
Only that something precious was calling his name.
And the distance between them—
Was growing heavier by the day.