The following Saturday settled over the Tramonto Rosso with the same mix of scents, voices, and plates in flight—but with one detail that barely broke the script: no melodramatic silhouette of Gojo-sensei at the glass door. Aiko was drizzling a thread of bright green oil over a bruschetta served with buffalo mozzarella when she heard the bell trill. She looked up and saw the three first-years come in… without their sensei in tow.
Nobara in front, proud and brisk like someone who took charge even if nobody had asked her to. She looked around, intent on choosing the perfect table for the three of them. Megumi behind, eyes down and collar up as if he wanted to hide from the world. Always quiet and a little irritated. Then Yuji—red hoodie, hands in pockets, tousled hair and wide, curious eyes, as if everything in the place deserved attention.
A small satisfaction pricked at Aiko's chest: the fact that they had come back, and on their own, felt like a sweet confirmation. Maybe all the sacrifices she made every day were starting to pay off. She tucked a stray lock behind her ear, lifted the little notepad, and approached the trio with a light step, like someone who knew exactly where she was going.
"Welcome back, guys! No teacher today?" she asked, smiling.
Nobara raised an eyebrow. "He says you need energy for training. And that carbonara has more power than a spell."
Aiko laughed. "Pure wisdom. Come on, I'll take you to the usual table: spectacular view of the wood-fired oven."
As she handed out the menus, she noticed Yuji's curious eyes brushing the tablecloths with his fingertips, lingering on the breadbaskets, the bottles of oil, the fresh flowers, wondering if they were real. Eyes that seemed to want to absorb everything, as if every detail could become a memory to take along.
When it was his turn to order, Yuji spoke softly, almost cautiously:
"If… um… you still have them, I'd get the gnocchi with pesto again."
Aiko tilted her head, a half smile on her lips. "Loyal already on your second visit? I promise they're even softer today. Fresh basil, arrived this morning from Genoa."
Yuji rubbed the back of his neck, eyes down and a shy little grin. He seemed surprised himself by how much he wanted those gnocchi—or maybe just by the fact that Aiko remembered.
A moment later, though, that small embarrassment melted into a simple, content, genuine expression. It didn't take much, it seemed. A good plate of food, a kind voice, and that place almost became home.
Aiko jotted it down in the notepad in her usual quick hand—ricotta ravioli for Megumi, spaghetti with clams for Nobara, gnocchi with pesto for Yuji—then turned toward the kitchen, leaving behind the curious chatter of those three who, sitting with an air halfway between cautious and fascinated, were stepping into a world made of golden crusts and fresh basil instead of exorcisms and spells.
As she crossed the dining room, she found herself thinking—without quite knowing why—that there was something beautiful about seeing them come back there, into her little universe made of sauce and place settings to straighten. It wasn't friendship yet, nor did she know what it would become, but that feeling made her slow her pace just a moment. Enough to give her a spontaneous half-smile, one of those you don't even ask yourself why you're making.
She came back to herself. Lunch unfolded slowly, like an old film that gains color with every scene. The voices of the three bounced between the exposed brick and the full tables: Nobara's light laughs, Megumi's approving silences, and Yuji's constant wonder, who with every forkful of gnocchi seemed to discover a new world.
"Oh my god, this stuff is insane!" Yuji exclaimed.
Aiko watched them sidelong as she refilled the breadbaskets. "Shall I bring you some extra focaccia?" she asked, lifting the tray with ease.
"Yes, please!" Yuji answered, a smile full of basil crumbs.
She came back with two warm portions. "Because good oil calls for good bread," she said, setting the still-steaming baskets on the table. Nobara gave a small round of applause, while even Megumi lifted his gaze with the faintest hint of satisfaction. It was his way of saying "thank you."
When the coffee arrived, the room had grown quieter. The buzz had dropped, leaving space only for the clink of cups and teaspoons. Standing behind the counter, Aiko watched them for a moment: Nobara explaining—with passion—why pastry should be considered art; Megumi, with minimal movements, rescuing the last crumb from the plate; Yuji tapping his fingers softly, as if he still had too much inside and didn't know how to let it out.
Then it was time to go; the restaurant was closing. At the register, Nobara leaned on the counter like someone who already knew the place. "Thanks for the criminally generous doses of carbs. A couple more Saturdays like this and we'll conquer Japan."
Aiko laughed and pointed to the sign. "We cook with love. But if needed, I can knead an army."
Megumi, keeping to the side as always, left the tip in silence. Just a small bow, but it was enough.
Yuji was the last. First he rummaged in his pockets, then straightened his hoodie as if searching for something he hadn't really lost. "I think I've got everything…" he murmured, casting a look around the room as if to memorize every corner. Then he went out. The door closed behind him, the bell chimed, and the daylight swallowed him.
***
Later, when the smell of sauce had faded into the lukewarm scent of coffee, Aiko set about clearing the tables. Each one told a small story of crumbs and half-full glasses, but the "first-years'" table returned an unexpected detail: next to Yuji's empty glass, folded in four, lay a scrap of paper. She unfolded it with the curiosity of someone unearthing a forgotten secret. Inside were lines and arrows, little symbols sketched on the fly: "20 push-up," "shadow boxing," a circle with "Pasta Power" written inside and circled twice, as if it were a talisman. Below, a line dashed off in haste:
Don't forget the taste — Itadori.
The smile that rose to her lips wasn't just amused: it had the flavor of tender things, the kind that ask nothing in return and yet warm the chest—and the heart. The note, in the end, wasn't worth anything—a piece of paper stained with olive oil—and yet that goofy reminder spoke of discipline and lightness, two words Aiko had learned to balance every day between school, studying, and evening shifts.
She folded it carefully, slipped it into the pocket of her apron, and ran her fingers over the fabric, as if sealing a small secret pact with herself: she would return that slip, of course, but at the right moment. And maybe, when that day came, she'd find out whether carbs could really coexist with abs… or whether there was something more behind those food-loving smiles.
Evening, shortly after...
Spring rain tapped softly against the windows of the Tramonto Rosso as the clock struck nine. The place was slowly emptying: a few tables already flipped, glasses left to drain on the shelf, the smell of sauce replaced by the sweeter, rounder aroma of freshly ground coffee. People saying their goodbyes, with two kisses. Aiko, behind the register, counted coins with quick, practiced motions, still wearing her apron tied at the waist, blond strands escaping her high ponytail.
The bell's jingle made her look up. Yuji rushed in, soaked, jacket plastered to him and his red hoodie clutched to his chest as if he wanted to protect it from the rain. He was dripping onto the floor, but his smile—half guilty, half hopeful—brightened the quiet air of the room.
"Sorry it's late… I think I left a note here at lunch."
Aiko raised an eyebrow and slipped a hand into her apron pocket. "This one?" she asked, fluttering it between two fingers. "With 'Pasta Power' written in a circle as big as a Margherita pizza?"
Yuji sighed in relief, a half-smile escaping. "That's the one. I need it to remind me that abs don't have to declare war on carbs."
"A revolutionary concept," Aiko laughed, handing it over. "But next time, come in dry, okay? The new floor is still in its break-in phase."
Yuji ran a hand through his wet hair, scattering a few droplets around. "Promise. Actually… could I get a hot chocolate? I swear I'll sit only after I've dried off a bit."
"Go ahead and sit." Aiko motioned toward the stool. "The oven's off, but hot chocolate is always doable."
As she prepared the cup, the sound of milk heating and frothing filled the place, accompanied by the discreet patter of rain. Yuji sat near the register and watched her from behind: the apron a little loose at her hips, the ponytail barely moving, the soft light brushing her neck. He wasn't staring—more like trying to remember the scene for later, a moment to save.
"Here it is." Aiko set the cup in front of him, the scent of cocoa and cinnamon rising in a warm cloud. "Drink with caution: they say it burns more than a badly cast curse."
Yuji smiled, wrapping his hands around the warm ceramic. "Thanks. This is the only kind of spell I won't resist." He took a slow sip. "Do you always stay late?"
"Almost always." Aiko flipped the sign to "CLOSED" and leaned an elbow on the counter.
"Until everything's back in place. Glasses in a row, tabs closed, final silence."
Yuji nodded. "Must be tough. School, work, studying… just hearing it makes me want to go into hibernation."
She smiled, but it was a little tired. "It's my balance. If I slow down, I lose the rhythm. I guess that's just how I am."
Yuji nodded. "I get it. I've got training sessions that look like something out of a survival show. But—" he gave the yellowed note a little shake—"in here is the reminder I need: remember the taste of good things. Otherwise it all turns into goofy kicks at the air and punches at ghosts."
Aiko looked at him in silence for a moment. That suspended instant, made of steam and rain, seemed to be saying something that didn't have a name yet.
And then she smiled—real, simple. "Then remember that note well. It might come in handy more often than you think," she said.
A conspiratorial smile climbed onto Aiko's lips. She went on: "I like it. Pasta Power as a life philosophy. I'll print it on the napkins and give you the rights."
They stayed there a few minutes in silence. Yuji sipped his hot chocolate, Aiko ran a cloth over the counter in small, slow circles, as if she were drawing a secret map. It was a comfortable silence, the kind that doesn't ask for anything. Just rain tapping at the windows and steam fogging up even their thoughts.
In the end, Yuji set down the empty cup, leaving a round mark on the marble, like a small moon. "Better than any warm-up." He pulled his still-wet hoodie tighter and stood to pay. She shook her head no. "I owe you one," he said.
"I'll cash it in as focaccia. Next visit." Aiko gave a small bow, elegant and soft.
Yuji headed for the door, then stopped and turned. The light of the streetlamp outside cut his profile in the rain. "Thank you, Aiko-san. For the note… for the hot chocolate… and for not kicking me out while you were mopping."
She smiled sideways. "As long as you don't turn into the mop yourself, you're welcome."
A wave of the hand, the bell's trill, and then only the dense sound of the rain outside. Aiko stayed still for a few seconds, hands resting on the counter, eyes fixed on the drops sliding down the glass like slow notes on a musical staff.
It wasn't friendship yet. Maybe not even anything clear.
It was just a found note, a shared hot chocolate, and two smiles exchanged in a restaurant now fallen quiet.