Not long after, Luca returned from outside carrying a bag filled with snacks and soft drinks. Seo-in was still lying on the bed when she heard the door open. She sat up, brushing away the lingering frustration from her conversation with her mother. The air in the room still felt heavy — until Luca stepped in.
When he appeared in the doorway, Luca immediately noticed the tension on her face.
"Everything okay?" he asked softly, setting the bag down on the bedside table.
Seo-in forced a small smile. "Yeah, just ... family stuff," she replied, her voice quieter than usual.
He didn't press further, but his eyes said he understood more than he let on.
Luca began unpacking the snacks, lining them neatly on the table — a small, thoughtful gesture that didn't go unnoticed. Seo-in watched him for a moment, a hint of warmth returning to her expression.
"You got my favorite," she said, nodding toward the honey-flavored chips. "Thanks."
"Figured you might need it," Luca replied simply, glancing at her with a small grin before sitting beside her on the bed.
There was a brief, comfortable silence before he spoke again. "By the way, I'm going to my dad's place tomorrow," he said as he cracked open a can of carbonated milk drink.
Seo-in turned to him, slightly surprised. It wasn't often that he brought up his father. "Oh? Why?"
He shrugged, looking away as he opened a bag of chips. "Just haven't seen him in a while," he said casually — too casually. His fingers drummed lightly against the can, betraying a faint restlessness she recognized all too well.
Seo-in bit her lip, wanting to ask more but knowing better than to push when he wasn't ready. "Alright," she said gently, reaching for a chip. "How long will you be gone?"
"Not long — just a few hours. Then tomorrow we can head home together," he said, handing her a snack with an easy smile.
She took it from him, returning a small, knowing smile of her own. "Just don't let him make you mad this time," she murmured, half-teasing, half-serious.
Luca scoffed softly. "I'll try." He nudged her elbow playfully. "And you — don't stress-eat all my snacks while I'm gone."
Seo-in gasped dramatically, clutching the honey chips close to her chest. "Excuse me, these are our snacks."
Luca smirked, snatching the bag back with lightning-fast reflexes — years of boxing paying off.
"Our snacks, sure. But my money bought them," he teased, holding them just out of reach.
Seo-in pouted and made a half-hearted grab before flopping back on the pillows. "Unfair. Absolutely tyrannical behavior."
He rolled his eyes and tossed the bag into her lap with an exaggerated sigh. "Fine. But only because you look pathetic when you whine."
She grinned triumphantly, ripped the bag open, and kicked his shin in playful retaliation. Luca laughed and retaliated by stealing a chip straight out of her hand mid-bite, maintaining eye contact like it was a challenge.
It was — a declaration of war if there ever was one.
Needless to say, no snacks were eaten peacefully that night. Between laughter, teasing, and mock death threats over stolen honey chips, the tension that had filled the room earlier quietly dissolved — leaving only warmth in its place.
***
The next day, while Luca was at work, he glanced again at the message from his father the night before:
[Uri Appa] 11:56 "I'll transfer you 150 euros"
He stared at the screen longer than he should have. One hundred and fifty euros. It wasn't nothing—but it wasn't nearly enough to solve anything either. And it came with a familiar aftertaste: pity disguised as generosity.
He sighed quietly and locked his phone.
For a moment, he'd considered visiting his father that evening like he said he would. But the thought of sitting across that man, pretending everything was fine while accepting money he didn't want to need...
It made his stomach twist.
He wouldn't do it.
Not again.
He was tired of feeling like a beggar every time he accepted his father's help.
Besides, it wasn't as if the man had changed. His father always gave just enough to almost help—never enough to actually make a difference. And his mother? She had stopped pretending to care after marrying rich. Whenever Luca asked for help, she'd scold him for "depending too much on others." Easy to say when you lived in a penthouse.
He shoved his phone into his pocket, muttering under his breath, "I'll manage."
The lunch shift at the restaurant was brutal. Orders kept coming nonstop, and the kitchen's heat pressed down like a weight. Luca worked on autopilot—scrubbing pans, chopping vegetables, carrying crates of bottled drinks from the back room. The rhythm was mechanical, his muscles following familiar commands while his thoughts spun elsewhere.
He didn't even realize he'd sliced the edge of his thumb until he saw the red bead forming against the pale of his skin. He hissed quietly, rinsed it under the sink, then wrapped it with a paper towel before anyone noticed.
It wasn't the cut that hurt—it was everything else. The quiet exhaustion that never really left. The kind that crawled into your bones and made pride feel heavier than hunger.
Between shifts, he checked his phone again. The unread message from his father was still there, sitting like a ghost in his notifications. He hovered his thumb over it… then swiped it away.
No reply.
No visit.
Not today.
If his father asked later, he'd just say work ran late. It was close enough to the truth.
Luca tossed the towel into the laundry bin and leaned against the prep counter, breathing in the sharp scent of detergent and steel. Somewhere in the noise of clattering pans and sizzling oil, he heard his own voice in his head:
"You'd tell me if you were struggling, right?"
He wouldn't.
When his shift finally ended, he stepped out into the cool night air, the neon signs of nearby stores flickering weakly above the empty street. His hands smelled faintly of onions and soap, and his shoulders ached from carrying too much—for too long.
He didn't know how long he stood there before finally starting the walk home.
All he knew was that he couldn't show up at his father's door like a beggar.
Not tonight.
Maybe not ever.