The table was set with care—white lilies in a slim vase, the soft glow of the fire flickering across polished wood.
Matteo pulled out a chair for Felix, who hesitated for a fraction before sliding in.
He held Matteo's gaze just a heartbeat longer than necessary.
"Everything looks… nice," Felix murmured, voice soft and uncertain.
Matteo's lips curved faintly. "I wanted it to be," he said, his tone low. His fingers brushed the edge of the table as though steadying himself, though his eyes never strayed from Felix.
Felix's hands curled lightly around the table's edge. He drew in a quiet breath. "You always… do things like this?"
"Not always," Matteo admitted, his gaze flicking toward the flames. "Only when it matters."
Felix studied him—the way his long hair caught the firelight, the steady rhythm of his hands.
A warmth stirred inside him, unfamiliar yet achingly gentle, as though some part of him already knew this man.
