The bell above the café door chimed softly as they stepped inside.
It smelled like warm bread and honey. Faint vanilla. Steam curled from behind the counter where a barista, tucked into a beige apron, gave them a quiet nod.
Noel's eyes scanned the place. Just three small tables inside, each tucked by a window.
Outside, there was a wooden deck shaded by soft vines overhead — one table unoccupied, touched by filtered sunlight and a breeze that smelled faintly of citrus.
"That one," Luca said, nodding toward the vine-draped table. "It feels like you — soft and a little hidden, but worth finding."
Noel gave him a look. "I look like a table?"
"You look like stillness," Luca's voice was soft. "Like something soft and kind that people don't always notice unless they slow down."
Noel stared.
Then looked away. "You're getting dangerously good at this."
"I know," Luca smirked. "Scares me too."
