Sunday morning arrived soft and quiet, the kind of morning that felt stolen from time—no obligations, no alarms, just the gentle awareness of waking naturally.
Luca opened his eyes to find Noel's side of the bed empty, sheets cool to the touch.
Kitchen sounds drifted through the apartment—cabinet doors opening, the quiet clink of dishes, water running.
He got up, padding barefoot across the floor, following the smell of something cooking.
Noel stood at the stove, still in his sleep clothes—gray sweatpants and a faded t-shirt, focused on whatever was in the pan.
Luca moved behind him, wrapping arms around his waist, chin hooking over his shoulder.
"Morning," he mumbled against Noel's neck.
"Morning. You're up early."
"Bed was empty."
"I was making breakfast."
"I can see that."
Noel continued cooking—scrambled eggs, from what Luca could tell, plus something that smelled like bacon—while Luca stayed attached, arms locked around his waist.
