The walk home stretched easy and unhurried—the kind of evening that asked for nothing but time.
The air carried a softness, warm and city-scented, alive with faint laughter spilling from open cafés.
They didn't rush. Noel's steps matched Luca's, shoulders brushing now and then.
Streetlights blinked to life one by one, washing the sidewalk in amber light.
Luca slowed near a row of small restaurants, his gaze snagging on the glow of a familiar red sign.
The scent hit him before the name did—tomato, oregano, melted cheese.
He stopped dead.
"Pizza," he declared, turning toward the door like it was destiny.
Noel arched an eyebrow. "Pizza? Again?"
"Correction," Luca said solemnly, pressing a hand to his heart. "Therapy in circular form."
Noel huffed a laugh. "You really can't go a week without it, huh?"
"Not when the universe clearly wants me to have it." Luca pointed toward the window, where a waitress was setting down a steaming pie. "Look at that. Fate."
