The basket was emptied, shirts folded away, and the apartment settled into quiet.
Noel lingered in the kitchen, fingertips tapping against the counter, while Luca sprawled against a chair like his work for the evening was already done.
"You eat junk all the time," Noel said finally, eyeing him. "We should cook something decent."
Luca's head lifted. "Now? I thought folding socks was tonight's grand finale."
"You'll live," Noel replied, pulling open a cupboard and setting out a pan. "Come here."
Luca groaned but dragged himself over, leaning a hip against the counter. "If this ends with me covered in flour—"
"No flour," Noel cut in smoothly. "Something simple. Pasta. Vegetables. You can manage."
Luca arched a brow. "You're forgetting I made an omelette this morning. By myself. Gordon Ramsay would've been impressed."
"It was salty," Noel reminded him.
"Seasoned," Luca corrected. "There's a difference."
