Pizzeria Starita is warm and loud — a mosaic of clinking cutlery, swirling conversations, and woodsmoke rising from brick ovens.
Elias steps in through the side entrance, shoulders loose, steps calculated. He's not here for pizza.
Kai, at his side, yawns and glances around. "You've officially lost it."
Elias doesn't answer.
He's already found her.
At the far end of the room — second table from the window — she sits among her classmates. The sun filters in through the glass and paints a soft gleam over her scarf. She's smiling, a small, worn smile that disappears the moment she's not talking. Her eyes flicker across the table, listening more than she speaks.
A waitress arrives with a tray. Slices of pizza are handed around — thick, oozing, meat-heavy.
But not to her.
Leila's plate arrives with a smaller serving. A thin margherita, no meat, no wine reduction.
She thanks the server with a soft nod, pulling her plate closer like it's a shield.
Elias leans back slightly in the booth where he and Kai have settled, a few tables away, partially hidden. He watches as Leila carefully separates the cheese from the edges, checking something before eating. She doesn't touch the complimentary glass of red wine placed beside her.
He narrows his eyes.
"She doesn't eat meat," Elias says quietly.
Kai lifts a brow. "You've become a food detective now?"
"No," Elias says. "She's avoiding specific things. Alcohol. Certain meats. She checked for something on the pizza."
"She's picky."
"She's precise."
A pause.
Then Elias asks, not looking at Kai, "Do you know why?"
Kai scoffs. "What do I look like, her best friend?"
But then, as if on cue, one of Leila's classmates at the table asks what both men are wondering.
"You're not eating any of the meat? Or the wine sauce?" the girl asks, sipping her drink. "Allergies or something?"
Leila shakes her head, voice calm. "No, it's not allergies. It's just that… I eat halal."
Her words are simple, without explanation — not defensive, not hesitant.
But something in Elias clicks into place.
Halal.
Of course.
He recalls the phone call at the airport, her words in a language he didn't understand, the warmth of her tone, the tenderness she carried like muscle memory. Pakistani.
Not just quiet. Rooted.
"She's disciplined," Elias mutters to himself.
Kai side-eyes him. "You're weirdly impressed by that."
"I'm not."
"You are."
Elias's jaw tenses slightly, but he doesn't argue.
Because Kai is right.
There's something about the way she moves through the world — quietly, consciously — that gets under his skin.
Like she's not trying to stand out.
She just does.